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Historian Philippe Ariès claimed that in medieval Europe childhood was not viewed as a distinct period in human development, with a special character and needs. His argument for this thesis relied heavily on medieval text illustrations, which distinguish children from adults principally by their stature, rather than by a distinctively childlike appearance:the children look like miniature adults. Ariès also suggested that high infant mortality rates in the Middle Ages induced indifference toward offspring as a defense mechanism against establishing close ties with infants unlikely to survive. Shulamith Shahar's recent research challenges this established conception of the medieval view of childhood. Shahar has had to work hard to find evidence to support her interpretation of the medieval conception of childhood, since works that reveal parents' personal attitudes, such as Giovanni Morelli's journal, are exceptional. Shahar makes intelligent use of medical writing and theological works. Particularly illuminating are medieval accounts of saints' lives, which despite their emphasis on personal piety reveal much concerning their subjects' childhoods and which provide evidence of parental concern for children. Even more significant are accounts of saints' miracles involving the healing of sick infants and the blessing of young couples with children. Shahar also discusses the period in childhood from ages 7 to 11 when boys of the wealthier classes were placed in monasteries or as apprentices in the household of a "master" of a trade. To some this custom might imply a perception of childhood insufficiently distinguished from adulthood, or even indifference to children, evidenced by the willingness to send young children away from home. Shahar points out, however, that training was in stages, and children were not expected to live as adults or to assume all the tasks of maturity at once. Furthermore, Shahar quotes a telling number of instances in which parents of apprentices sued masters for maltreatment of their children. Shahar concludes that parents placed their children in monasteries or as apprentices not to be rid of them, but because it was a social norm to ensure one's children a future niche in society. Shahar's work is highly persuasive, but as a rebuttal to Ariès, it is uncomfortably incomplete. Shahar succeeds in demonstrating that people in the Middle Ages did view childhood as a definite stage in human development and that they were not indifferent toward their children. But central to Ariès' position was the contention that the family as a powerful and private institution organized around children is a relatively modern ideal, whose origins Ariès related to the growing influence of the middle classes in the postmedieval period. Ariès felt that this implied something novel about the development of perceptions of childhood and of the family. Shahar does not comment on these larger issues.

199702_2-RC_1_4

In the third paragraph, the author mentions the period in childhood from ages 7 to 11 most likely in order to

Historian Philippe Ariès claimed that in medieval Europe childhood was not viewed as a distinct period in human development, with a special character and needs. His argument for this thesis relied heavily on medieval text illustrations, which distinguish children from adults principally by their stature, rather than by a distinctively childlike appearance:the children look like miniature adults. Ariès also suggested that high infant mortality rates in the Middle Ages induced indifference toward offspring as a defense mechanism against establishing close ties with infants unlikely to survive. Shulamith Shahar's recent research challenges this established conception of the medieval view of childhood. Shahar has had to work hard to find evidence to support her interpretation of the medieval conception of childhood, since works that reveal parents' personal attitudes, such as Giovanni Morelli's journal, are exceptional. Shahar makes intelligent use of medical writing and theological works. Particularly illuminating are medieval accounts of saints' lives, which despite their emphasis on personal piety reveal much concerning their subjects' childhoods and which provide evidence of parental concern for children. Even more significant are accounts of saints' miracles involving the healing of sick infants and the blessing of young couples with children. Shahar also discusses the period in childhood from ages 7 to 11 when boys of the wealthier classes were placed in monasteries or as apprentices in the household of a "master" of a trade. To some this custom might imply a perception of childhood insufficiently distinguished from adulthood, or even indifference to children, evidenced by the willingness to send young children away from home. Shahar points out, however, that training was in stages, and children were not expected to live as adults or to assume all the tasks of maturity at once. Furthermore, Shahar quotes a telling number of instances in which parents of apprentices sued masters for maltreatment of their children. Shahar concludes that parents placed their children in monasteries or as apprentices not to be rid of them, but because it was a social norm to ensure one's children a future niche in society. Shahar's work is highly persuasive, but as a rebuttal to Ariès, it is uncomfortably incomplete. Shahar succeeds in demonstrating that people in the Middle Ages did view childhood as a definite stage in human development and that they were not indifferent toward their children. But central to Ariès' position was the contention that the family as a powerful and private institution organized around children is a relatively modern ideal, whose origins Ariès related to the growing influence of the middle classes in the postmedieval period. Ariès felt that this implied something novel about the development of perceptions of childhood and of the family. Shahar does not comment on these larger issues.

199702_2-RC_1_5

Which one of the following, if true, would provide the LEAST support for Shahar's arguments as they are described in the passage?

Historian Philippe Ariès claimed that in medieval Europe childhood was not viewed as a distinct period in human development, with a special character and needs. His argument for this thesis relied heavily on medieval text illustrations, which distinguish children from adults principally by their stature, rather than by a distinctively childlike appearance:the children look like miniature adults. Ariès also suggested that high infant mortality rates in the Middle Ages induced indifference toward offspring as a defense mechanism against establishing close ties with infants unlikely to survive. Shulamith Shahar's recent research challenges this established conception of the medieval view of childhood. Shahar has had to work hard to find evidence to support her interpretation of the medieval conception of childhood, since works that reveal parents' personal attitudes, such as Giovanni Morelli's journal, are exceptional. Shahar makes intelligent use of medical writing and theological works. Particularly illuminating are medieval accounts of saints' lives, which despite their emphasis on personal piety reveal much concerning their subjects' childhoods and which provide evidence of parental concern for children. Even more significant are accounts of saints' miracles involving the healing of sick infants and the blessing of young couples with children. Shahar also discusses the period in childhood from ages 7 to 11 when boys of the wealthier classes were placed in monasteries or as apprentices in the household of a "master" of a trade. To some this custom might imply a perception of childhood insufficiently distinguished from adulthood, or even indifference to children, evidenced by the willingness to send young children away from home. Shahar points out, however, that training was in stages, and children were not expected to live as adults or to assume all the tasks of maturity at once. Furthermore, Shahar quotes a telling number of instances in which parents of apprentices sued masters for maltreatment of their children. Shahar concludes that parents placed their children in monasteries or as apprentices not to be rid of them, but because it was a social norm to ensure one's children a future niche in society. Shahar's work is highly persuasive, but as a rebuttal to Ariès, it is uncomfortably incomplete. Shahar succeeds in demonstrating that people in the Middle Ages did view childhood as a definite stage in human development and that they were not indifferent toward their children. But central to Ariès' position was the contention that the family as a powerful and private institution organized around children is a relatively modern ideal, whose origins Ariès related to the growing influence of the middle classes in the postmedieval period. Ariès felt that this implied something novel about the development of perceptions of childhood and of the family. Shahar does not comment on these larger issues.

199702_2-RC_1_6

It can be inferred from the passage that Ariès would be likely to agree with all of the following statements EXCEPT:

Historian Philippe Ariès claimed that in medieval Europe childhood was not viewed as a distinct period in human development, with a special character and needs. His argument for this thesis relied heavily on medieval text illustrations, which distinguish children from adults principally by their stature, rather than by a distinctively childlike appearance:the children look like miniature adults. Ariès also suggested that high infant mortality rates in the Middle Ages induced indifference toward offspring as a defense mechanism against establishing close ties with infants unlikely to survive. Shulamith Shahar's recent research challenges this established conception of the medieval view of childhood. Shahar has had to work hard to find evidence to support her interpretation of the medieval conception of childhood, since works that reveal parents' personal attitudes, such as Giovanni Morelli's journal, are exceptional. Shahar makes intelligent use of medical writing and theological works. Particularly illuminating are medieval accounts of saints' lives, which despite their emphasis on personal piety reveal much concerning their subjects' childhoods and which provide evidence of parental concern for children. Even more significant are accounts of saints' miracles involving the healing of sick infants and the blessing of young couples with children. Shahar also discusses the period in childhood from ages 7 to 11 when boys of the wealthier classes were placed in monasteries or as apprentices in the household of a "master" of a trade. To some this custom might imply a perception of childhood insufficiently distinguished from adulthood, or even indifference to children, evidenced by the willingness to send young children away from home. Shahar points out, however, that training was in stages, and children were not expected to live as adults or to assume all the tasks of maturity at once. Furthermore, Shahar quotes a telling number of instances in which parents of apprentices sued masters for maltreatment of their children. Shahar concludes that parents placed their children in monasteries or as apprentices not to be rid of them, but because it was a social norm to ensure one's children a future niche in society. Shahar's work is highly persuasive, but as a rebuttal to Ariès, it is uncomfortably incomplete. Shahar succeeds in demonstrating that people in the Middle Ages did view childhood as a definite stage in human development and that they were not indifferent toward their children. But central to Ariès' position was the contention that the family as a powerful and private institution organized around children is a relatively modern ideal, whose origins Ariès related to the growing influence of the middle classes in the postmedieval period. Ariès felt that this implied something novel about the development of perceptions of childhood and of the family. Shahar does not comment on these larger issues.

199702_2-RC_1_7

Shahar's work as it is described in the passage does NOT provide an answer to which one of the following questions?

Historian Philippe Ariès claimed that in medieval Europe childhood was not viewed as a distinct period in human development, with a special character and needs. His argument for this thesis relied heavily on medieval text illustrations, which distinguish children from adults principally by their stature, rather than by a distinctively childlike appearance:the children look like miniature adults. Ariès also suggested that high infant mortality rates in the Middle Ages induced indifference toward offspring as a defense mechanism against establishing close ties with infants unlikely to survive. Shulamith Shahar's recent research challenges this established conception of the medieval view of childhood. Shahar has had to work hard to find evidence to support her interpretation of the medieval conception of childhood, since works that reveal parents' personal attitudes, such as Giovanni Morelli's journal, are exceptional. Shahar makes intelligent use of medical writing and theological works. Particularly illuminating are medieval accounts of saints' lives, which despite their emphasis on personal piety reveal much concerning their subjects' childhoods and which provide evidence of parental concern for children. Even more significant are accounts of saints' miracles involving the healing of sick infants and the blessing of young couples with children. Shahar also discusses the period in childhood from ages 7 to 11 when boys of the wealthier classes were placed in monasteries or as apprentices in the household of a "master" of a trade. To some this custom might imply a perception of childhood insufficiently distinguished from adulthood, or even indifference to children, evidenced by the willingness to send young children away from home. Shahar points out, however, that training was in stages, and children were not expected to live as adults or to assume all the tasks of maturity at once. Furthermore, Shahar quotes a telling number of instances in which parents of apprentices sued masters for maltreatment of their children. Shahar concludes that parents placed their children in monasteries or as apprentices not to be rid of them, but because it was a social norm to ensure one's children a future niche in society. Shahar's work is highly persuasive, but as a rebuttal to Ariès, it is uncomfortably incomplete. Shahar succeeds in demonstrating that people in the Middle Ages did view childhood as a definite stage in human development and that they were not indifferent toward their children. But central to Ariès' position was the contention that the family as a powerful and private institution organized around children is a relatively modern ideal, whose origins Ariès related to the growing influence of the middle classes in the postmedieval period. Ariès felt that this implied something novel about the development of perceptions of childhood and of the family. Shahar does not comment on these larger issues.

199702_2-RC_1_8

The author would most likely agree with which one of the following statements about Shahar's research in relation to Ariès' theories about childhood in the Middle Ages?

Increases in the amount of carbon dioxide (CO ) and other trace gases in the Earth's atmosphere can contribute to what has been called greenhouse warming,because those compounds allow the Sun's energy to reach the surface of the Earth, thereby warming it,but prevent much of that energy from being reradiated to outer space.Measuring devices set up at several locations around the world have revealed a 20 percent increase in atmospheric CO over the course of the past century—from 290 parts per million in 1880 to 352 parts per million in 1989. Several studies agree that it is plausible that the CO content of the atmosphere may well double from its 1880 level by around the middle of the twenty-first century. To project how much the global temperature will increase in response to a doubling of atmospheric CO should be simple:since the CO content has increased by about 20 percent over the past century,we should be able to observe the increases in global temperature during the same period and base future projections on that data. The prevailing view is that the climatic record over the past century for the entire globe reveals a net increase in temperature ranging from 0.5 to 1.0 degree Fahrenheit (approximately 0.25 to 0.5 degrees Celsius). But set against this conclusion is the fact that data gathered over the past century in North America, where observations are numerous and accurate, does not confirm such an increase. And even if the temperature rise is real, another puzzle remains: is the rise in global temperatures a natural fluctuation or a result of the increase in greenhouse gases? Because of inconclusive data and the complexity of the problem, some scientists predict an increase as small as two degrees Fahrenheit (one degree Celsius) in the average global temperature over the next half century, whereas others predict increases of up to nine degrees Fahrenheit (five degrees Celsius).It makes a great difference whether the actual increase is at the low or high end of this range. Although human beings are probably resilient enough to adapt to the effects of an increase of approximately two degrees Fahrenheit (one degree Celsius), an increase of nine degrees Fahrenheit (five degrees Celsius) is believed to be the difference in temperature that separates the end of the last great ice age, 12,000 years ago, from the present. In light of such uncertainty, the wisest policy is not to forestall action. Steps that make sense for economic or environmental reasons besides greenhouse warming, such as replacing fossil-fuel energy with solar energy, could be taken first, whether or not climate warming is taking place. Then, as scientific knowledge grows and uncertainties are reduced, more costly measures could be taken, if warranted, hence closely tying policy decisions to the latest information available. Scientists and others have aptly called this type of action a "no regrets" policy.

199702_2-RC_2_9

Which one of the following statements best expresses the main idea of the passage?

Increases in the amount of carbon dioxide (CO ) and other trace gases in the Earth's atmosphere can contribute to what has been called greenhouse warming,because those compounds allow the Sun's energy to reach the surface of the Earth, thereby warming it,but prevent much of that energy from being reradiated to outer space.Measuring devices set up at several locations around the world have revealed a 20 percent increase in atmospheric CO over the course of the past century—from 290 parts per million in 1880 to 352 parts per million in 1989. Several studies agree that it is plausible that the CO content of the atmosphere may well double from its 1880 level by around the middle of the twenty-first century. To project how much the global temperature will increase in response to a doubling of atmospheric CO should be simple:since the CO content has increased by about 20 percent over the past century,we should be able to observe the increases in global temperature during the same period and base future projections on that data. The prevailing view is that the climatic record over the past century for the entire globe reveals a net increase in temperature ranging from 0.5 to 1.0 degree Fahrenheit (approximately 0.25 to 0.5 degrees Celsius). But set against this conclusion is the fact that data gathered over the past century in North America, where observations are numerous and accurate, does not confirm such an increase. And even if the temperature rise is real, another puzzle remains: is the rise in global temperatures a natural fluctuation or a result of the increase in greenhouse gases? Because of inconclusive data and the complexity of the problem, some scientists predict an increase as small as two degrees Fahrenheit (one degree Celsius) in the average global temperature over the next half century, whereas others predict increases of up to nine degrees Fahrenheit (five degrees Celsius).It makes a great difference whether the actual increase is at the low or high end of this range. Although human beings are probably resilient enough to adapt to the effects of an increase of approximately two degrees Fahrenheit (one degree Celsius), an increase of nine degrees Fahrenheit (five degrees Celsius) is believed to be the difference in temperature that separates the end of the last great ice age, 12,000 years ago, from the present. In light of such uncertainty, the wisest policy is not to forestall action. Steps that make sense for economic or environmental reasons besides greenhouse warming, such as replacing fossil-fuel energy with solar energy, could be taken first, whether or not climate warming is taking place. Then, as scientific knowledge grows and uncertainties are reduced, more costly measures could be taken, if warranted, hence closely tying policy decisions to the latest information available. Scientists and others have aptly called this type of action a "no regrets" policy.

199702_2-RC_2_10

The passage suggests that a rise in global temperature over the next half century, if it occurs, could result from

Increases in the amount of carbon dioxide (CO ) and other trace gases in the Earth's atmosphere can contribute to what has been called greenhouse warming,because those compounds allow the Sun's energy to reach the surface of the Earth, thereby warming it,but prevent much of that energy from being reradiated to outer space.Measuring devices set up at several locations around the world have revealed a 20 percent increase in atmospheric CO over the course of the past century—from 290 parts per million in 1880 to 352 parts per million in 1989. Several studies agree that it is plausible that the CO content of the atmosphere may well double from its 1880 level by around the middle of the twenty-first century. To project how much the global temperature will increase in response to a doubling of atmospheric CO should be simple:since the CO content has increased by about 20 percent over the past century,we should be able to observe the increases in global temperature during the same period and base future projections on that data. The prevailing view is that the climatic record over the past century for the entire globe reveals a net increase in temperature ranging from 0.5 to 1.0 degree Fahrenheit (approximately 0.25 to 0.5 degrees Celsius). But set against this conclusion is the fact that data gathered over the past century in North America, where observations are numerous and accurate, does not confirm such an increase. And even if the temperature rise is real, another puzzle remains: is the rise in global temperatures a natural fluctuation or a result of the increase in greenhouse gases? Because of inconclusive data and the complexity of the problem, some scientists predict an increase as small as two degrees Fahrenheit (one degree Celsius) in the average global temperature over the next half century, whereas others predict increases of up to nine degrees Fahrenheit (five degrees Celsius).It makes a great difference whether the actual increase is at the low or high end of this range. Although human beings are probably resilient enough to adapt to the effects of an increase of approximately two degrees Fahrenheit (one degree Celsius), an increase of nine degrees Fahrenheit (five degrees Celsius) is believed to be the difference in temperature that separates the end of the last great ice age, 12,000 years ago, from the present. In light of such uncertainty, the wisest policy is not to forestall action. Steps that make sense for economic or environmental reasons besides greenhouse warming, such as replacing fossil-fuel energy with solar energy, could be taken first, whether or not climate warming is taking place. Then, as scientific knowledge grows and uncertainties are reduced, more costly measures could be taken, if warranted, hence closely tying policy decisions to the latest information available. Scientists and others have aptly called this type of action a "no regrets" policy.

199702_2-RC_2_11

Which one of the following best describes the organization of the passage?

Increases in the amount of carbon dioxide (CO ) and other trace gases in the Earth's atmosphere can contribute to what has been called greenhouse warming,because those compounds allow the Sun's energy to reach the surface of the Earth, thereby warming it,but prevent much of that energy from being reradiated to outer space.Measuring devices set up at several locations around the world have revealed a 20 percent increase in atmospheric CO over the course of the past century—from 290 parts per million in 1880 to 352 parts per million in 1989. Several studies agree that it is plausible that the CO content of the atmosphere may well double from its 1880 level by around the middle of the twenty-first century. To project how much the global temperature will increase in response to a doubling of atmospheric CO should be simple:since the CO content has increased by about 20 percent over the past century,we should be able to observe the increases in global temperature during the same period and base future projections on that data. The prevailing view is that the climatic record over the past century for the entire globe reveals a net increase in temperature ranging from 0.5 to 1.0 degree Fahrenheit (approximately 0.25 to 0.5 degrees Celsius). But set against this conclusion is the fact that data gathered over the past century in North America, where observations are numerous and accurate, does not confirm such an increase. And even if the temperature rise is real, another puzzle remains: is the rise in global temperatures a natural fluctuation or a result of the increase in greenhouse gases? Because of inconclusive data and the complexity of the problem, some scientists predict an increase as small as two degrees Fahrenheit (one degree Celsius) in the average global temperature over the next half century, whereas others predict increases of up to nine degrees Fahrenheit (five degrees Celsius).It makes a great difference whether the actual increase is at the low or high end of this range. Although human beings are probably resilient enough to adapt to the effects of an increase of approximately two degrees Fahrenheit (one degree Celsius), an increase of nine degrees Fahrenheit (five degrees Celsius) is believed to be the difference in temperature that separates the end of the last great ice age, 12,000 years ago, from the present. In light of such uncertainty, the wisest policy is not to forestall action. Steps that make sense for economic or environmental reasons besides greenhouse warming, such as replacing fossil-fuel energy with solar energy, could be taken first, whether or not climate warming is taking place. Then, as scientific knowledge grows and uncertainties are reduced, more costly measures could be taken, if warranted, hence closely tying policy decisions to the latest information available. Scientists and others have aptly called this type of action a "no regrets" policy.

199702_2-RC_2_12

The author refers to the meteorological data gathered in North America over the past century in order to

Increases in the amount of carbon dioxide (CO ) and other trace gases in the Earth's atmosphere can contribute to what has been called greenhouse warming,because those compounds allow the Sun's energy to reach the surface of the Earth, thereby warming it,but prevent much of that energy from being reradiated to outer space.Measuring devices set up at several locations around the world have revealed a 20 percent increase in atmospheric CO over the course of the past century—from 290 parts per million in 1880 to 352 parts per million in 1989. Several studies agree that it is plausible that the CO content of the atmosphere may well double from its 1880 level by around the middle of the twenty-first century. To project how much the global temperature will increase in response to a doubling of atmospheric CO should be simple:since the CO content has increased by about 20 percent over the past century,we should be able to observe the increases in global temperature during the same period and base future projections on that data. The prevailing view is that the climatic record over the past century for the entire globe reveals a net increase in temperature ranging from 0.5 to 1.0 degree Fahrenheit (approximately 0.25 to 0.5 degrees Celsius). But set against this conclusion is the fact that data gathered over the past century in North America, where observations are numerous and accurate, does not confirm such an increase. And even if the temperature rise is real, another puzzle remains: is the rise in global temperatures a natural fluctuation or a result of the increase in greenhouse gases? Because of inconclusive data and the complexity of the problem, some scientists predict an increase as small as two degrees Fahrenheit (one degree Celsius) in the average global temperature over the next half century, whereas others predict increases of up to nine degrees Fahrenheit (five degrees Celsius).It makes a great difference whether the actual increase is at the low or high end of this range. Although human beings are probably resilient enough to adapt to the effects of an increase of approximately two degrees Fahrenheit (one degree Celsius), an increase of nine degrees Fahrenheit (five degrees Celsius) is believed to be the difference in temperature that separates the end of the last great ice age, 12,000 years ago, from the present. In light of such uncertainty, the wisest policy is not to forestall action. Steps that make sense for economic or environmental reasons besides greenhouse warming, such as replacing fossil-fuel energy with solar energy, could be taken first, whether or not climate warming is taking place. Then, as scientific knowledge grows and uncertainties are reduced, more costly measures could be taken, if warranted, hence closely tying policy decisions to the latest information available. Scientists and others have aptly called this type of action a "no regrets" policy.

199702_2-RC_2_13

It can be inferred that the author of the passage would most likely agree with which one of the following statements about a response to global warming?

Increases in the amount of carbon dioxide (CO ) and other trace gases in the Earth's atmosphere can contribute to what has been called greenhouse warming,because those compounds allow the Sun's energy to reach the surface of the Earth, thereby warming it,but prevent much of that energy from being reradiated to outer space.Measuring devices set up at several locations around the world have revealed a 20 percent increase in atmospheric CO over the course of the past century—from 290 parts per million in 1880 to 352 parts per million in 1989. Several studies agree that it is plausible that the CO content of the atmosphere may well double from its 1880 level by around the middle of the twenty-first century. To project how much the global temperature will increase in response to a doubling of atmospheric CO should be simple:since the CO content has increased by about 20 percent over the past century,we should be able to observe the increases in global temperature during the same period and base future projections on that data. The prevailing view is that the climatic record over the past century for the entire globe reveals a net increase in temperature ranging from 0.5 to 1.0 degree Fahrenheit (approximately 0.25 to 0.5 degrees Celsius). But set against this conclusion is the fact that data gathered over the past century in North America, where observations are numerous and accurate, does not confirm such an increase. And even if the temperature rise is real, another puzzle remains: is the rise in global temperatures a natural fluctuation or a result of the increase in greenhouse gases? Because of inconclusive data and the complexity of the problem, some scientists predict an increase as small as two degrees Fahrenheit (one degree Celsius) in the average global temperature over the next half century, whereas others predict increases of up to nine degrees Fahrenheit (five degrees Celsius).It makes a great difference whether the actual increase is at the low or high end of this range. Although human beings are probably resilient enough to adapt to the effects of an increase of approximately two degrees Fahrenheit (one degree Celsius), an increase of nine degrees Fahrenheit (five degrees Celsius) is believed to be the difference in temperature that separates the end of the last great ice age, 12,000 years ago, from the present. In light of such uncertainty, the wisest policy is not to forestall action. Steps that make sense for economic or environmental reasons besides greenhouse warming, such as replacing fossil-fuel energy with solar energy, could be taken first, whether or not climate warming is taking place. Then, as scientific knowledge grows and uncertainties are reduced, more costly measures could be taken, if warranted, hence closely tying policy decisions to the latest information available. Scientists and others have aptly called this type of action a "no regrets" policy.

199702_2-RC_2_14

Which one of the following is most analogous to the course of action recommended in the last paragraph?

There are two especially influential interpretations of nineteenth-century British feminists' opposition to efforts to restrict women's hours of work:that of liberal legal historians on the one hand and that of labor historians on the other. For legal historians, the nineteenth century was an "age of collectivism," in which an emphasis on welfare replaced the emphasis on individual rights, and the state came to be seen as a protector of its inhabitants rather than as a "referee" among citizens. Women and children were the first beneficiaries of maximum-hours restrictions that would eventually spread to men as well. British feminists, according to these scholars, could not afford to seem to favor these "special" laws for women because their single-minded campaign for women's suffrage relied so heavily on arguments derived from eighteenth-century theories of individual rights and equality. Most labor historians, on the other hand, explain the feminist opposition to protective laws as coming from middle-class women who blindly ignored the injustices against which such laws' supporters struggled continuously. Labor historians attack the feminists for having a selfish ideology, one that asked that privileged women be allowed to enjoy equal treatment with privileged men, but not that the economic bases of social relations be rethought. Recently, however, feminist historians have begun to uncover plentiful reasons for feminist mistrust of government and trade-union efforts to protect women. Their studies of women's trade unions reveal, as the earlier histories did not, the tensions between women and men within the trade-union movement. They document that male-dominated trade unions often supported, and sometimes even sponsored, protective labor legislation aimed at forcibly excluding women from wage labor, either in order to maintain a husband's right to his wife's unpaid labor in the home or to preserve jobs for men. Such gender conflicts were complicated, as other feminist scholars have demonstrated, by self-interested government policies that alternately enticed women into jobs in order to end labor shortages or pushed them out to provide jobs for men. Finally, the studies show that state labor policy toward women was always deeply influenced by a desire to control female morality and to influence child-bearing decisions. Whether protective labor legislation for women is just or expedient is still in dispute today, and legal scholars disagree on what criteria to use to evaluate such laws. The labor historians' class-based analyses are no more fully adequate than the liberal legal historians' benign evolutionary depictions. Feminist historians have a major contribution to make to both the reconstruction of the historical record dealing with women and labor legislation and to broader theories of law as an instrument of social control and of social change.

199702_2-RC_3_15

It can be inferred from the passage that by "age of collectivism" (line 7) the author means a period in which

There are two especially influential interpretations of nineteenth-century British feminists' opposition to efforts to restrict women's hours of work:that of liberal legal historians on the one hand and that of labor historians on the other. For legal historians, the nineteenth century was an "age of collectivism," in which an emphasis on welfare replaced the emphasis on individual rights, and the state came to be seen as a protector of its inhabitants rather than as a "referee" among citizens. Women and children were the first beneficiaries of maximum-hours restrictions that would eventually spread to men as well. British feminists, according to these scholars, could not afford to seem to favor these "special" laws for women because their single-minded campaign for women's suffrage relied so heavily on arguments derived from eighteenth-century theories of individual rights and equality. Most labor historians, on the other hand, explain the feminist opposition to protective laws as coming from middle-class women who blindly ignored the injustices against which such laws' supporters struggled continuously. Labor historians attack the feminists for having a selfish ideology, one that asked that privileged women be allowed to enjoy equal treatment with privileged men, but not that the economic bases of social relations be rethought. Recently, however, feminist historians have begun to uncover plentiful reasons for feminist mistrust of government and trade-union efforts to protect women. Their studies of women's trade unions reveal, as the earlier histories did not, the tensions between women and men within the trade-union movement. They document that male-dominated trade unions often supported, and sometimes even sponsored, protective labor legislation aimed at forcibly excluding women from wage labor, either in order to maintain a husband's right to his wife's unpaid labor in the home or to preserve jobs for men. Such gender conflicts were complicated, as other feminist scholars have demonstrated, by self-interested government policies that alternately enticed women into jobs in order to end labor shortages or pushed them out to provide jobs for men. Finally, the studies show that state labor policy toward women was always deeply influenced by a desire to control female morality and to influence child-bearing decisions. Whether protective labor legislation for women is just or expedient is still in dispute today, and legal scholars disagree on what criteria to use to evaluate such laws. The labor historians' class-based analyses are no more fully adequate than the liberal legal historians' benign evolutionary depictions. Feminist historians have a major contribution to make to both the reconstruction of the historical record dealing with women and labor legislation and to broader theories of law as an instrument of social control and of social change.

199702_2-RC_3_16

The passage suggests that histories of nineteenth-century British protective labor laws written by liberal legal historians would be most likely to differ from those written by labor historians in which one of the following ways?

There are two especially influential interpretations of nineteenth-century British feminists' opposition to efforts to restrict women's hours of work:that of liberal legal historians on the one hand and that of labor historians on the other. For legal historians, the nineteenth century was an "age of collectivism," in which an emphasis on welfare replaced the emphasis on individual rights, and the state came to be seen as a protector of its inhabitants rather than as a "referee" among citizens. Women and children were the first beneficiaries of maximum-hours restrictions that would eventually spread to men as well. British feminists, according to these scholars, could not afford to seem to favor these "special" laws for women because their single-minded campaign for women's suffrage relied so heavily on arguments derived from eighteenth-century theories of individual rights and equality. Most labor historians, on the other hand, explain the feminist opposition to protective laws as coming from middle-class women who blindly ignored the injustices against which such laws' supporters struggled continuously. Labor historians attack the feminists for having a selfish ideology, one that asked that privileged women be allowed to enjoy equal treatment with privileged men, but not that the economic bases of social relations be rethought. Recently, however, feminist historians have begun to uncover plentiful reasons for feminist mistrust of government and trade-union efforts to protect women. Their studies of women's trade unions reveal, as the earlier histories did not, the tensions between women and men within the trade-union movement. They document that male-dominated trade unions often supported, and sometimes even sponsored, protective labor legislation aimed at forcibly excluding women from wage labor, either in order to maintain a husband's right to his wife's unpaid labor in the home or to preserve jobs for men. Such gender conflicts were complicated, as other feminist scholars have demonstrated, by self-interested government policies that alternately enticed women into jobs in order to end labor shortages or pushed them out to provide jobs for men. Finally, the studies show that state labor policy toward women was always deeply influenced by a desire to control female morality and to influence child-bearing decisions. Whether protective labor legislation for women is just or expedient is still in dispute today, and legal scholars disagree on what criteria to use to evaluate such laws. The labor historians' class-based analyses are no more fully adequate than the liberal legal historians' benign evolutionary depictions. Feminist historians have a major contribution to make to both the reconstruction of the historical record dealing with women and labor legislation and to broader theories of law as an instrument of social control and of social change.

199702_2-RC_3_17

It can be inferred from the passage that feminist historians believe that one inadequacy of most labor historians' studies of nineteenth-century feminist opposition to protective labor legislation for women was that the studies

There are two especially influential interpretations of nineteenth-century British feminists' opposition to efforts to restrict women's hours of work:that of liberal legal historians on the one hand and that of labor historians on the other. For legal historians, the nineteenth century was an "age of collectivism," in which an emphasis on welfare replaced the emphasis on individual rights, and the state came to be seen as a protector of its inhabitants rather than as a "referee" among citizens. Women and children were the first beneficiaries of maximum-hours restrictions that would eventually spread to men as well. British feminists, according to these scholars, could not afford to seem to favor these "special" laws for women because their single-minded campaign for women's suffrage relied so heavily on arguments derived from eighteenth-century theories of individual rights and equality. Most labor historians, on the other hand, explain the feminist opposition to protective laws as coming from middle-class women who blindly ignored the injustices against which such laws' supporters struggled continuously. Labor historians attack the feminists for having a selfish ideology, one that asked that privileged women be allowed to enjoy equal treatment with privileged men, but not that the economic bases of social relations be rethought. Recently, however, feminist historians have begun to uncover plentiful reasons for feminist mistrust of government and trade-union efforts to protect women. Their studies of women's trade unions reveal, as the earlier histories did not, the tensions between women and men within the trade-union movement. They document that male-dominated trade unions often supported, and sometimes even sponsored, protective labor legislation aimed at forcibly excluding women from wage labor, either in order to maintain a husband's right to his wife's unpaid labor in the home or to preserve jobs for men. Such gender conflicts were complicated, as other feminist scholars have demonstrated, by self-interested government policies that alternately enticed women into jobs in order to end labor shortages or pushed them out to provide jobs for men. Finally, the studies show that state labor policy toward women was always deeply influenced by a desire to control female morality and to influence child-bearing decisions. Whether protective labor legislation for women is just or expedient is still in dispute today, and legal scholars disagree on what criteria to use to evaluate such laws. The labor historians' class-based analyses are no more fully adequate than the liberal legal historians' benign evolutionary depictions. Feminist historians have a major contribution to make to both the reconstruction of the historical record dealing with women and labor legislation and to broader theories of law as an instrument of social control and of social change.

199702_2-RC_3_18

The author implies that liberal legal historians believe that British feminists withheld support from laws restricting women's working hours for which one of the following reasons?

There are two especially influential interpretations of nineteenth-century British feminists' opposition to efforts to restrict women's hours of work:that of liberal legal historians on the one hand and that of labor historians on the other. For legal historians, the nineteenth century was an "age of collectivism," in which an emphasis on welfare replaced the emphasis on individual rights, and the state came to be seen as a protector of its inhabitants rather than as a "referee" among citizens. Women and children were the first beneficiaries of maximum-hours restrictions that would eventually spread to men as well. British feminists, according to these scholars, could not afford to seem to favor these "special" laws for women because their single-minded campaign for women's suffrage relied so heavily on arguments derived from eighteenth-century theories of individual rights and equality. Most labor historians, on the other hand, explain the feminist opposition to protective laws as coming from middle-class women who blindly ignored the injustices against which such laws' supporters struggled continuously. Labor historians attack the feminists for having a selfish ideology, one that asked that privileged women be allowed to enjoy equal treatment with privileged men, but not that the economic bases of social relations be rethought. Recently, however, feminist historians have begun to uncover plentiful reasons for feminist mistrust of government and trade-union efforts to protect women. Their studies of women's trade unions reveal, as the earlier histories did not, the tensions between women and men within the trade-union movement. They document that male-dominated trade unions often supported, and sometimes even sponsored, protective labor legislation aimed at forcibly excluding women from wage labor, either in order to maintain a husband's right to his wife's unpaid labor in the home or to preserve jobs for men. Such gender conflicts were complicated, as other feminist scholars have demonstrated, by self-interested government policies that alternately enticed women into jobs in order to end labor shortages or pushed them out to provide jobs for men. Finally, the studies show that state labor policy toward women was always deeply influenced by a desire to control female morality and to influence child-bearing decisions. Whether protective labor legislation for women is just or expedient is still in dispute today, and legal scholars disagree on what criteria to use to evaluate such laws. The labor historians' class-based analyses are no more fully adequate than the liberal legal historians' benign evolutionary depictions. Feminist historians have a major contribution to make to both the reconstruction of the historical record dealing with women and labor legislation and to broader theories of law as an instrument of social control and of social change.

199702_2-RC_3_19

The author's characterization of the views of labor historians as "class-based" (line 53) most strongly suggests that such historians

There are two especially influential interpretations of nineteenth-century British feminists' opposition to efforts to restrict women's hours of work:that of liberal legal historians on the one hand and that of labor historians on the other. For legal historians, the nineteenth century was an "age of collectivism," in which an emphasis on welfare replaced the emphasis on individual rights, and the state came to be seen as a protector of its inhabitants rather than as a "referee" among citizens. Women and children were the first beneficiaries of maximum-hours restrictions that would eventually spread to men as well. British feminists, according to these scholars, could not afford to seem to favor these "special" laws for women because their single-minded campaign for women's suffrage relied so heavily on arguments derived from eighteenth-century theories of individual rights and equality. Most labor historians, on the other hand, explain the feminist opposition to protective laws as coming from middle-class women who blindly ignored the injustices against which such laws' supporters struggled continuously. Labor historians attack the feminists for having a selfish ideology, one that asked that privileged women be allowed to enjoy equal treatment with privileged men, but not that the economic bases of social relations be rethought. Recently, however, feminist historians have begun to uncover plentiful reasons for feminist mistrust of government and trade-union efforts to protect women. Their studies of women's trade unions reveal, as the earlier histories did not, the tensions between women and men within the trade-union movement. They document that male-dominated trade unions often supported, and sometimes even sponsored, protective labor legislation aimed at forcibly excluding women from wage labor, either in order to maintain a husband's right to his wife's unpaid labor in the home or to preserve jobs for men. Such gender conflicts were complicated, as other feminist scholars have demonstrated, by self-interested government policies that alternately enticed women into jobs in order to end labor shortages or pushed them out to provide jobs for men. Finally, the studies show that state labor policy toward women was always deeply influenced by a desire to control female morality and to influence child-bearing decisions. Whether protective labor legislation for women is just or expedient is still in dispute today, and legal scholars disagree on what criteria to use to evaluate such laws. The labor historians' class-based analyses are no more fully adequate than the liberal legal historians' benign evolutionary depictions. Feminist historians have a major contribution to make to both the reconstruction of the historical record dealing with women and labor legislation and to broader theories of law as an instrument of social control and of social change.

199702_2-RC_3_20

According to the passage, studies by feminist historians suggest that British feminists opposed both nineteenth-century protective labor laws for women and government labor policies primarily for which one of the following reasons?

Richard L. Jackson's most recent book, Black Writers in Latin America, continues the task of his previous project, The Black Image in Latin American Literature. But whereas the earlier work examined ethnic themes in the writings of both black and non-black authors, the new study examines only black writers living in Latin America (that is, African Hispanic writers). Consequently, there is a shift in emphasis. While the earlier book studied various attitudes toward black people in Latin America as revealed in a wide range of literature, the later work examines the black representation of black consciousness in Spanish American literature from the early nineteenth century to the present. In Black Writers in Latin America, Jackson states that "personal identification with blackness and personal experience with the black experience have a great deal to do with a black writer's choice of words, symbols, and images." He goes on to argue that only black writers have the necessary insight and mastery of the appropriate techniques to depict their situation authentically. In this regard, Jackson joins a number of other North American critics who tend to conceptualize African Hispanic literature as culturally autonomous, with its own style and themes deriving primarily from the experience of oppression in African Hispanic history. Critics influenced by the Latin American ideal of racial blending, on the other hand, believe that black and non-black writers share the same cultural context and that, given comparable talent, both are equally equipped to overcome their ethnocentrism. Although Jackson clearly embraces the North American perspective, he does concede in his introduction that most African Hispanic writers espouse integration rather than separatism. At times Jackson's own analysis reveals the problems inherent in using ethnicity as the primary basis for critical judgment:the textual evidence he cites sometimes subverts the intent to find common tendencies among all writers of a particular racial group. For example, in his chapter on Nicolás Guillén, Jackson attempts to dissociate the black Cuban poet from the Negrista movement, claiming that "rather than associate Guillén with poetic Negrism, we should see his dramatic conversion to blackness in the late 1920s and early 1930s as a reaction against this white literary fad that was sweeping the world." Admittedly, several of Guillén's poems from the 1920s show an awareness of social ills like poverty, unemployment, and racial discrimination that is absent from the work of peers influenced by the Negrista movement. But it is difficult to argue that Guillén's portraits of black people in poems from the early 1930s such as "Canto negro" and "Rumba" are more authentic and less superficial than those in Luis Palés Matos's "Danza negra" or Emilio Ballagas's "Elegía de María Belén Chacón." This effort to distance Guillén from his Hispanic colleagues thus fails, given the very texts Jackson uses to demonstrate his points.

199702_2-RC_4_21

According to the passage, which one of the following is true of Jackson's earlier study of African Hispanic literature?

Richard L. Jackson's most recent book, Black Writers in Latin America, continues the task of his previous project, The Black Image in Latin American Literature. But whereas the earlier work examined ethnic themes in the writings of both black and non-black authors, the new study examines only black writers living in Latin America (that is, African Hispanic writers). Consequently, there is a shift in emphasis. While the earlier book studied various attitudes toward black people in Latin America as revealed in a wide range of literature, the later work examines the black representation of black consciousness in Spanish American literature from the early nineteenth century to the present. In Black Writers in Latin America, Jackson states that "personal identification with blackness and personal experience with the black experience have a great deal to do with a black writer's choice of words, symbols, and images." He goes on to argue that only black writers have the necessary insight and mastery of the appropriate techniques to depict their situation authentically. In this regard, Jackson joins a number of other North American critics who tend to conceptualize African Hispanic literature as culturally autonomous, with its own style and themes deriving primarily from the experience of oppression in African Hispanic history. Critics influenced by the Latin American ideal of racial blending, on the other hand, believe that black and non-black writers share the same cultural context and that, given comparable talent, both are equally equipped to overcome their ethnocentrism. Although Jackson clearly embraces the North American perspective, he does concede in his introduction that most African Hispanic writers espouse integration rather than separatism. At times Jackson's own analysis reveals the problems inherent in using ethnicity as the primary basis for critical judgment:the textual evidence he cites sometimes subverts the intent to find common tendencies among all writers of a particular racial group. For example, in his chapter on Nicolás Guillén, Jackson attempts to dissociate the black Cuban poet from the Negrista movement, claiming that "rather than associate Guillén with poetic Negrism, we should see his dramatic conversion to blackness in the late 1920s and early 1930s as a reaction against this white literary fad that was sweeping the world." Admittedly, several of Guillén's poems from the 1920s show an awareness of social ills like poverty, unemployment, and racial discrimination that is absent from the work of peers influenced by the Negrista movement. But it is difficult to argue that Guillén's portraits of black people in poems from the early 1930s such as "Canto negro" and "Rumba" are more authentic and less superficial than those in Luis Palés Matos's "Danza negra" or Emilio Ballagas's "Elegía de María Belén Chacón." This effort to distance Guillén from his Hispanic colleagues thus fails, given the very texts Jackson uses to demonstrate his points.

199702_2-RC_4_22

Which one of the following, if true, would most seriously undermine Jackson's use of ethnicity as a basis for critical judgment of African Hispanic literature?

Richard L. Jackson's most recent book, Black Writers in Latin America, continues the task of his previous project, The Black Image in Latin American Literature. But whereas the earlier work examined ethnic themes in the writings of both black and non-black authors, the new study examines only black writers living in Latin America (that is, African Hispanic writers). Consequently, there is a shift in emphasis. While the earlier book studied various attitudes toward black people in Latin America as revealed in a wide range of literature, the later work examines the black representation of black consciousness in Spanish American literature from the early nineteenth century to the present. In Black Writers in Latin America, Jackson states that "personal identification with blackness and personal experience with the black experience have a great deal to do with a black writer's choice of words, symbols, and images." He goes on to argue that only black writers have the necessary insight and mastery of the appropriate techniques to depict their situation authentically. In this regard, Jackson joins a number of other North American critics who tend to conceptualize African Hispanic literature as culturally autonomous, with its own style and themes deriving primarily from the experience of oppression in African Hispanic history. Critics influenced by the Latin American ideal of racial blending, on the other hand, believe that black and non-black writers share the same cultural context and that, given comparable talent, both are equally equipped to overcome their ethnocentrism. Although Jackson clearly embraces the North American perspective, he does concede in his introduction that most African Hispanic writers espouse integration rather than separatism. At times Jackson's own analysis reveals the problems inherent in using ethnicity as the primary basis for critical judgment:the textual evidence he cites sometimes subverts the intent to find common tendencies among all writers of a particular racial group. For example, in his chapter on Nicolás Guillén, Jackson attempts to dissociate the black Cuban poet from the Negrista movement, claiming that "rather than associate Guillén with poetic Negrism, we should see his dramatic conversion to blackness in the late 1920s and early 1930s as a reaction against this white literary fad that was sweeping the world." Admittedly, several of Guillén's poems from the 1920s show an awareness of social ills like poverty, unemployment, and racial discrimination that is absent from the work of peers influenced by the Negrista movement. But it is difficult to argue that Guillén's portraits of black people in poems from the early 1930s such as "Canto negro" and "Rumba" are more authentic and less superficial than those in Luis Palés Matos's "Danza negra" or Emilio Ballagas's "Elegía de María Belén Chacón." This effort to distance Guillén from his Hispanic colleagues thus fails, given the very texts Jackson uses to demonstrate his points.

199702_2-RC_4_23

Which one of the following best describes the organization of the second paragraph?

Richard L. Jackson's most recent book, Black Writers in Latin America, continues the task of his previous project, The Black Image in Latin American Literature. But whereas the earlier work examined ethnic themes in the writings of both black and non-black authors, the new study examines only black writers living in Latin America (that is, African Hispanic writers). Consequently, there is a shift in emphasis. While the earlier book studied various attitudes toward black people in Latin America as revealed in a wide range of literature, the later work examines the black representation of black consciousness in Spanish American literature from the early nineteenth century to the present. In Black Writers in Latin America, Jackson states that "personal identification with blackness and personal experience with the black experience have a great deal to do with a black writer's choice of words, symbols, and images." He goes on to argue that only black writers have the necessary insight and mastery of the appropriate techniques to depict their situation authentically. In this regard, Jackson joins a number of other North American critics who tend to conceptualize African Hispanic literature as culturally autonomous, with its own style and themes deriving primarily from the experience of oppression in African Hispanic history. Critics influenced by the Latin American ideal of racial blending, on the other hand, believe that black and non-black writers share the same cultural context and that, given comparable talent, both are equally equipped to overcome their ethnocentrism. Although Jackson clearly embraces the North American perspective, he does concede in his introduction that most African Hispanic writers espouse integration rather than separatism. At times Jackson's own analysis reveals the problems inherent in using ethnicity as the primary basis for critical judgment:the textual evidence he cites sometimes subverts the intent to find common tendencies among all writers of a particular racial group. For example, in his chapter on Nicolás Guillén, Jackson attempts to dissociate the black Cuban poet from the Negrista movement, claiming that "rather than associate Guillén with poetic Negrism, we should see his dramatic conversion to blackness in the late 1920s and early 1930s as a reaction against this white literary fad that was sweeping the world." Admittedly, several of Guillén's poems from the 1920s show an awareness of social ills like poverty, unemployment, and racial discrimination that is absent from the work of peers influenced by the Negrista movement. But it is difficult to argue that Guillén's portraits of black people in poems from the early 1930s such as "Canto negro" and "Rumba" are more authentic and less superficial than those in Luis Palés Matos's "Danza negra" or Emilio Ballagas's "Elegía de María Belén Chacón." This effort to distance Guillén from his Hispanic colleagues thus fails, given the very texts Jackson uses to demonstrate his points.

199702_2-RC_4_24

According to the passage, which one of the following is true of some of Nicolás Guillén's poems from the 1920s?

Richard L. Jackson's most recent book, Black Writers in Latin America, continues the task of his previous project, The Black Image in Latin American Literature. But whereas the earlier work examined ethnic themes in the writings of both black and non-black authors, the new study examines only black writers living in Latin America (that is, African Hispanic writers). Consequently, there is a shift in emphasis. While the earlier book studied various attitudes toward black people in Latin America as revealed in a wide range of literature, the later work examines the black representation of black consciousness in Spanish American literature from the early nineteenth century to the present. In Black Writers in Latin America, Jackson states that "personal identification with blackness and personal experience with the black experience have a great deal to do with a black writer's choice of words, symbols, and images." He goes on to argue that only black writers have the necessary insight and mastery of the appropriate techniques to depict their situation authentically. In this regard, Jackson joins a number of other North American critics who tend to conceptualize African Hispanic literature as culturally autonomous, with its own style and themes deriving primarily from the experience of oppression in African Hispanic history. Critics influenced by the Latin American ideal of racial blending, on the other hand, believe that black and non-black writers share the same cultural context and that, given comparable talent, both are equally equipped to overcome their ethnocentrism. Although Jackson clearly embraces the North American perspective, he does concede in his introduction that most African Hispanic writers espouse integration rather than separatism. At times Jackson's own analysis reveals the problems inherent in using ethnicity as the primary basis for critical judgment:the textual evidence he cites sometimes subverts the intent to find common tendencies among all writers of a particular racial group. For example, in his chapter on Nicolás Guillén, Jackson attempts to dissociate the black Cuban poet from the Negrista movement, claiming that "rather than associate Guillén with poetic Negrism, we should see his dramatic conversion to blackness in the late 1920s and early 1930s as a reaction against this white literary fad that was sweeping the world." Admittedly, several of Guillén's poems from the 1920s show an awareness of social ills like poverty, unemployment, and racial discrimination that is absent from the work of peers influenced by the Negrista movement. But it is difficult to argue that Guillén's portraits of black people in poems from the early 1930s such as "Canto negro" and "Rumba" are more authentic and less superficial than those in Luis Palés Matos's "Danza negra" or Emilio Ballagas's "Elegía de María Belén Chacón." This effort to distance Guillén from his Hispanic colleagues thus fails, given the very texts Jackson uses to demonstrate his points.

199702_2-RC_4_25

It can be inferred that the author of the passage would most likely agree with which one of the following statements concerning an author's capacity to depict the African Hispanic experience?

Richard L. Jackson's most recent book, Black Writers in Latin America, continues the task of his previous project, The Black Image in Latin American Literature. But whereas the earlier work examined ethnic themes in the writings of both black and non-black authors, the new study examines only black writers living in Latin America (that is, African Hispanic writers). Consequently, there is a shift in emphasis. While the earlier book studied various attitudes toward black people in Latin America as revealed in a wide range of literature, the later work examines the black representation of black consciousness in Spanish American literature from the early nineteenth century to the present. In Black Writers in Latin America, Jackson states that "personal identification with blackness and personal experience with the black experience have a great deal to do with a black writer's choice of words, symbols, and images." He goes on to argue that only black writers have the necessary insight and mastery of the appropriate techniques to depict their situation authentically. In this regard, Jackson joins a number of other North American critics who tend to conceptualize African Hispanic literature as culturally autonomous, with its own style and themes deriving primarily from the experience of oppression in African Hispanic history. Critics influenced by the Latin American ideal of racial blending, on the other hand, believe that black and non-black writers share the same cultural context and that, given comparable talent, both are equally equipped to overcome their ethnocentrism. Although Jackson clearly embraces the North American perspective, he does concede in his introduction that most African Hispanic writers espouse integration rather than separatism. At times Jackson's own analysis reveals the problems inherent in using ethnicity as the primary basis for critical judgment:the textual evidence he cites sometimes subverts the intent to find common tendencies among all writers of a particular racial group. For example, in his chapter on Nicolás Guillén, Jackson attempts to dissociate the black Cuban poet from the Negrista movement, claiming that "rather than associate Guillén with poetic Negrism, we should see his dramatic conversion to blackness in the late 1920s and early 1930s as a reaction against this white literary fad that was sweeping the world." Admittedly, several of Guillén's poems from the 1920s show an awareness of social ills like poverty, unemployment, and racial discrimination that is absent from the work of peers influenced by the Negrista movement. But it is difficult to argue that Guillén's portraits of black people in poems from the early 1930s such as "Canto negro" and "Rumba" are more authentic and less superficial than those in Luis Palés Matos's "Danza negra" or Emilio Ballagas's "Elegía de María Belén Chacón." This effort to distance Guillén from his Hispanic colleagues thus fails, given the very texts Jackson uses to demonstrate his points.

199702_2-RC_4_26

Which one of the following approaches to a study of Hungarian identity in painting is most analogous to the North American approach to African Hispanic literature?

Richard L. Jackson's most recent book, Black Writers in Latin America, continues the task of his previous project, The Black Image in Latin American Literature. But whereas the earlier work examined ethnic themes in the writings of both black and non-black authors, the new study examines only black writers living in Latin America (that is, African Hispanic writers). Consequently, there is a shift in emphasis. While the earlier book studied various attitudes toward black people in Latin America as revealed in a wide range of literature, the later work examines the black representation of black consciousness in Spanish American literature from the early nineteenth century to the present. In Black Writers in Latin America, Jackson states that "personal identification with blackness and personal experience with the black experience have a great deal to do with a black writer's choice of words, symbols, and images." He goes on to argue that only black writers have the necessary insight and mastery of the appropriate techniques to depict their situation authentically. In this regard, Jackson joins a number of other North American critics who tend to conceptualize African Hispanic literature as culturally autonomous, with its own style and themes deriving primarily from the experience of oppression in African Hispanic history. Critics influenced by the Latin American ideal of racial blending, on the other hand, believe that black and non-black writers share the same cultural context and that, given comparable talent, both are equally equipped to overcome their ethnocentrism. Although Jackson clearly embraces the North American perspective, he does concede in his introduction that most African Hispanic writers espouse integration rather than separatism. At times Jackson's own analysis reveals the problems inherent in using ethnicity as the primary basis for critical judgment:the textual evidence he cites sometimes subverts the intent to find common tendencies among all writers of a particular racial group. For example, in his chapter on Nicolás Guillén, Jackson attempts to dissociate the black Cuban poet from the Negrista movement, claiming that "rather than associate Guillén with poetic Negrism, we should see his dramatic conversion to blackness in the late 1920s and early 1930s as a reaction against this white literary fad that was sweeping the world." Admittedly, several of Guillén's poems from the 1920s show an awareness of social ills like poverty, unemployment, and racial discrimination that is absent from the work of peers influenced by the Negrista movement. But it is difficult to argue that Guillén's portraits of black people in poems from the early 1930s such as "Canto negro" and "Rumba" are more authentic and less superficial than those in Luis Palés Matos's "Danza negra" or Emilio Ballagas's "Elegía de María Belén Chacón." This effort to distance Guillén from his Hispanic colleagues thus fails, given the very texts Jackson uses to demonstrate his points.

199702_2-RC_4_27

Which one of the following statements best expresses the main idea of the passage?

Painter Frida Kahlo (1910–1954) often used harrowing images derived from her Mexican heritage to express suffering caused by a disabling accident and a stormy marriage. Suggesting much personal and emotional content, her works—many of them self-portraits—have been exhaustively psychoanalyzed, while their political content has been less studied. Yet Kahlo was an ardent political activist who in her art sought not only to explore her own roots, but also to champion Mexico's struggle for an independent political and cultural identity. Kahlo was influenced by Marxism, which appealed to many intellectuals in the 1920s and 1930s, and by Mexican nationalism. Interest in Mexico's culture and history had revived in the nineteenth century, and by the early 1900s, Mexican indigenista tendencies ranged from a violently anti-Spanish idealization of Aztec Mexico to an emphasis on contemporary Mexican Indians as the key to authentic Mexican culture. Mexican nationalism, reacting against contemporary United States political intervention in labor disputes as well as against past domination by Spain, identified the Aztecs as the last independent rulers of an indigenous political unit. Kahlo's form of Mexicanidad, a romantic nationalism that focused upon traditional art uniting all indigenistas, revered the Aztecs as a powerful pre-Columbian society that had united a large area of the Middle Americas and that was thought to have been based on communal labor, the Marxist ideal. In her paintings, Kahlo repeatedly employed Aztec symbols, such as skeletons or bleeding hearts, that were traditionally related to the emanation of life from death and light from darkness. These images of destruction coupled with creation speak not only to Kahlo's personal battle for life, but also to the Mexican struggle to emerge as a nation—by implication, to emerge with the political and cultural strength admired in the Aztec civilization. Self-Portrait on the Border between Mexico and the United States (1932), for example, shows Kahlo wearing a bone necklace, holding a Mexican flag, and standing between a highly industrialized United States and an agricultural, preindustrial Mexico. On the United States side are mechanistic and modern images such as smokestacks, light bulbs, and robots. In contrast, the organic and ancient symbols on the Mexican side—a blood-drenched Sun, lush vegetation, an Aztec sculpture, a pre-Columbian temple, and a skull alluding to those that lined the walls of Aztec temples emphasize the interrelation of life, death, the earth, and the cosmos. Kahlo portrayed Aztec images in the folkloric style of traditional Mexican paintings, thereby heightening the clash between modern materialism and indigenous tradition; similarly, she favored planned economic development, but not at the expense of cultural identity. Her use of familiar symbols in a readily accessible style also served her goal of being popularly understood; in turn, Kahlo is viewed by some Mexicans as a mythic figure representative of nationalism itself.

199706_1-RC_1_1

Which one of the following best expresses the main point of the passage?

Painter Frida Kahlo (1910–1954) often used harrowing images derived from her Mexican heritage to express suffering caused by a disabling accident and a stormy marriage. Suggesting much personal and emotional content, her works—many of them self-portraits—have been exhaustively psychoanalyzed, while their political content has been less studied. Yet Kahlo was an ardent political activist who in her art sought not only to explore her own roots, but also to champion Mexico's struggle for an independent political and cultural identity. Kahlo was influenced by Marxism, which appealed to many intellectuals in the 1920s and 1930s, and by Mexican nationalism. Interest in Mexico's culture and history had revived in the nineteenth century, and by the early 1900s, Mexican indigenista tendencies ranged from a violently anti-Spanish idealization of Aztec Mexico to an emphasis on contemporary Mexican Indians as the key to authentic Mexican culture. Mexican nationalism, reacting against contemporary United States political intervention in labor disputes as well as against past domination by Spain, identified the Aztecs as the last independent rulers of an indigenous political unit. Kahlo's form of Mexicanidad, a romantic nationalism that focused upon traditional art uniting all indigenistas, revered the Aztecs as a powerful pre-Columbian society that had united a large area of the Middle Americas and that was thought to have been based on communal labor, the Marxist ideal. In her paintings, Kahlo repeatedly employed Aztec symbols, such as skeletons or bleeding hearts, that were traditionally related to the emanation of life from death and light from darkness. These images of destruction coupled with creation speak not only to Kahlo's personal battle for life, but also to the Mexican struggle to emerge as a nation—by implication, to emerge with the political and cultural strength admired in the Aztec civilization. Self-Portrait on the Border between Mexico and the United States (1932), for example, shows Kahlo wearing a bone necklace, holding a Mexican flag, and standing between a highly industrialized United States and an agricultural, preindustrial Mexico. On the United States side are mechanistic and modern images such as smokestacks, light bulbs, and robots. In contrast, the organic and ancient symbols on the Mexican side—a blood-drenched Sun, lush vegetation, an Aztec sculpture, a pre-Columbian temple, and a skull alluding to those that lined the walls of Aztec temples emphasize the interrelation of life, death, the earth, and the cosmos. Kahlo portrayed Aztec images in the folkloric style of traditional Mexican paintings, thereby heightening the clash between modern materialism and indigenous tradition; similarly, she favored planned economic development, but not at the expense of cultural identity. Her use of familiar symbols in a readily accessible style also served her goal of being popularly understood; in turn, Kahlo is viewed by some Mexicans as a mythic figure representative of nationalism itself.

199706_1-RC_1_2

With which one of the following statements concerning psychoanalytic and political interpretations of Kahlo's work would the author be most likely to agree?

Painter Frida Kahlo (1910–1954) often used harrowing images derived from her Mexican heritage to express suffering caused by a disabling accident and a stormy marriage. Suggesting much personal and emotional content, her works—many of them self-portraits—have been exhaustively psychoanalyzed, while their political content has been less studied. Yet Kahlo was an ardent political activist who in her art sought not only to explore her own roots, but also to champion Mexico's struggle for an independent political and cultural identity. Kahlo was influenced by Marxism, which appealed to many intellectuals in the 1920s and 1930s, and by Mexican nationalism. Interest in Mexico's culture and history had revived in the nineteenth century, and by the early 1900s, Mexican indigenista tendencies ranged from a violently anti-Spanish idealization of Aztec Mexico to an emphasis on contemporary Mexican Indians as the key to authentic Mexican culture. Mexican nationalism, reacting against contemporary United States political intervention in labor disputes as well as against past domination by Spain, identified the Aztecs as the last independent rulers of an indigenous political unit. Kahlo's form of Mexicanidad, a romantic nationalism that focused upon traditional art uniting all indigenistas, revered the Aztecs as a powerful pre-Columbian society that had united a large area of the Middle Americas and that was thought to have been based on communal labor, the Marxist ideal. In her paintings, Kahlo repeatedly employed Aztec symbols, such as skeletons or bleeding hearts, that were traditionally related to the emanation of life from death and light from darkness. These images of destruction coupled with creation speak not only to Kahlo's personal battle for life, but also to the Mexican struggle to emerge as a nation—by implication, to emerge with the political and cultural strength admired in the Aztec civilization. Self-Portrait on the Border between Mexico and the United States (1932), for example, shows Kahlo wearing a bone necklace, holding a Mexican flag, and standing between a highly industrialized United States and an agricultural, preindustrial Mexico. On the United States side are mechanistic and modern images such as smokestacks, light bulbs, and robots. In contrast, the organic and ancient symbols on the Mexican side—a blood-drenched Sun, lush vegetation, an Aztec sculpture, a pre-Columbian temple, and a skull alluding to those that lined the walls of Aztec temples emphasize the interrelation of life, death, the earth, and the cosmos. Kahlo portrayed Aztec images in the folkloric style of traditional Mexican paintings, thereby heightening the clash between modern materialism and indigenous tradition; similarly, she favored planned economic development, but not at the expense of cultural identity. Her use of familiar symbols in a readily accessible style also served her goal of being popularly understood; in turn, Kahlo is viewed by some Mexicans as a mythic figure representative of nationalism itself.

199706_1-RC_1_3

Which one of the following stances toward the United States does the passage mention as characterizing Mexican nationalists in the early twentieth century?

Painter Frida Kahlo (1910–1954) often used harrowing images derived from her Mexican heritage to express suffering caused by a disabling accident and a stormy marriage. Suggesting much personal and emotional content, her works—many of them self-portraits—have been exhaustively psychoanalyzed, while their political content has been less studied. Yet Kahlo was an ardent political activist who in her art sought not only to explore her own roots, but also to champion Mexico's struggle for an independent political and cultural identity. Kahlo was influenced by Marxism, which appealed to many intellectuals in the 1920s and 1930s, and by Mexican nationalism. Interest in Mexico's culture and history had revived in the nineteenth century, and by the early 1900s, Mexican indigenista tendencies ranged from a violently anti-Spanish idealization of Aztec Mexico to an emphasis on contemporary Mexican Indians as the key to authentic Mexican culture. Mexican nationalism, reacting against contemporary United States political intervention in labor disputes as well as against past domination by Spain, identified the Aztecs as the last independent rulers of an indigenous political unit. Kahlo's form of Mexicanidad, a romantic nationalism that focused upon traditional art uniting all indigenistas, revered the Aztecs as a powerful pre-Columbian society that had united a large area of the Middle Americas and that was thought to have been based on communal labor, the Marxist ideal. In her paintings, Kahlo repeatedly employed Aztec symbols, such as skeletons or bleeding hearts, that were traditionally related to the emanation of life from death and light from darkness. These images of destruction coupled with creation speak not only to Kahlo's personal battle for life, but also to the Mexican struggle to emerge as a nation—by implication, to emerge with the political and cultural strength admired in the Aztec civilization. Self-Portrait on the Border between Mexico and the United States (1932), for example, shows Kahlo wearing a bone necklace, holding a Mexican flag, and standing between a highly industrialized United States and an agricultural, preindustrial Mexico. On the United States side are mechanistic and modern images such as smokestacks, light bulbs, and robots. In contrast, the organic and ancient symbols on the Mexican side—a blood-drenched Sun, lush vegetation, an Aztec sculpture, a pre-Columbian temple, and a skull alluding to those that lined the walls of Aztec temples emphasize the interrelation of life, death, the earth, and the cosmos. Kahlo portrayed Aztec images in the folkloric style of traditional Mexican paintings, thereby heightening the clash between modern materialism and indigenous tradition; similarly, she favored planned economic development, but not at the expense of cultural identity. Her use of familiar symbols in a readily accessible style also served her goal of being popularly understood; in turn, Kahlo is viewed by some Mexicans as a mythic figure representative of nationalism itself.

199706_1-RC_1_4

In the context of the passage, which one of the following phrases could best be substituted for the word "romantic" (line 24) without substantially changing the author's meaning?

Painter Frida Kahlo (1910–1954) often used harrowing images derived from her Mexican heritage to express suffering caused by a disabling accident and a stormy marriage. Suggesting much personal and emotional content, her works—many of them self-portraits—have been exhaustively psychoanalyzed, while their political content has been less studied. Yet Kahlo was an ardent political activist who in her art sought not only to explore her own roots, but also to champion Mexico's struggle for an independent political and cultural identity. Kahlo was influenced by Marxism, which appealed to many intellectuals in the 1920s and 1930s, and by Mexican nationalism. Interest in Mexico's culture and history had revived in the nineteenth century, and by the early 1900s, Mexican indigenista tendencies ranged from a violently anti-Spanish idealization of Aztec Mexico to an emphasis on contemporary Mexican Indians as the key to authentic Mexican culture. Mexican nationalism, reacting against contemporary United States political intervention in labor disputes as well as against past domination by Spain, identified the Aztecs as the last independent rulers of an indigenous political unit. Kahlo's form of Mexicanidad, a romantic nationalism that focused upon traditional art uniting all indigenistas, revered the Aztecs as a powerful pre-Columbian society that had united a large area of the Middle Americas and that was thought to have been based on communal labor, the Marxist ideal. In her paintings, Kahlo repeatedly employed Aztec symbols, such as skeletons or bleeding hearts, that were traditionally related to the emanation of life from death and light from darkness. These images of destruction coupled with creation speak not only to Kahlo's personal battle for life, but also to the Mexican struggle to emerge as a nation—by implication, to emerge with the political and cultural strength admired in the Aztec civilization. Self-Portrait on the Border between Mexico and the United States (1932), for example, shows Kahlo wearing a bone necklace, holding a Mexican flag, and standing between a highly industrialized United States and an agricultural, preindustrial Mexico. On the United States side are mechanistic and modern images such as smokestacks, light bulbs, and robots. In contrast, the organic and ancient symbols on the Mexican side—a blood-drenched Sun, lush vegetation, an Aztec sculpture, a pre-Columbian temple, and a skull alluding to those that lined the walls of Aztec temples emphasize the interrelation of life, death, the earth, and the cosmos. Kahlo portrayed Aztec images in the folkloric style of traditional Mexican paintings, thereby heightening the clash between modern materialism and indigenous tradition; similarly, she favored planned economic development, but not at the expense of cultural identity. Her use of familiar symbols in a readily accessible style also served her goal of being popularly understood; in turn, Kahlo is viewed by some Mexicans as a mythic figure representative of nationalism itself.

199706_1-RC_1_5

The passage mentions each of the following as an Aztec symbol or image found in Kahlo's paintings EXCEPT a

Painter Frida Kahlo (1910–1954) often used harrowing images derived from her Mexican heritage to express suffering caused by a disabling accident and a stormy marriage. Suggesting much personal and emotional content, her works—many of them self-portraits—have been exhaustively psychoanalyzed, while their political content has been less studied. Yet Kahlo was an ardent political activist who in her art sought not only to explore her own roots, but also to champion Mexico's struggle for an independent political and cultural identity. Kahlo was influenced by Marxism, which appealed to many intellectuals in the 1920s and 1930s, and by Mexican nationalism. Interest in Mexico's culture and history had revived in the nineteenth century, and by the early 1900s, Mexican indigenista tendencies ranged from a violently anti-Spanish idealization of Aztec Mexico to an emphasis on contemporary Mexican Indians as the key to authentic Mexican culture. Mexican nationalism, reacting against contemporary United States political intervention in labor disputes as well as against past domination by Spain, identified the Aztecs as the last independent rulers of an indigenous political unit. Kahlo's form of Mexicanidad, a romantic nationalism that focused upon traditional art uniting all indigenistas, revered the Aztecs as a powerful pre-Columbian society that had united a large area of the Middle Americas and that was thought to have been based on communal labor, the Marxist ideal. In her paintings, Kahlo repeatedly employed Aztec symbols, such as skeletons or bleeding hearts, that were traditionally related to the emanation of life from death and light from darkness. These images of destruction coupled with creation speak not only to Kahlo's personal battle for life, but also to the Mexican struggle to emerge as a nation—by implication, to emerge with the political and cultural strength admired in the Aztec civilization. Self-Portrait on the Border between Mexico and the United States (1932), for example, shows Kahlo wearing a bone necklace, holding a Mexican flag, and standing between a highly industrialized United States and an agricultural, preindustrial Mexico. On the United States side are mechanistic and modern images such as smokestacks, light bulbs, and robots. In contrast, the organic and ancient symbols on the Mexican side—a blood-drenched Sun, lush vegetation, an Aztec sculpture, a pre-Columbian temple, and a skull alluding to those that lined the walls of Aztec temples emphasize the interrelation of life, death, the earth, and the cosmos. Kahlo portrayed Aztec images in the folkloric style of traditional Mexican paintings, thereby heightening the clash between modern materialism and indigenous tradition; similarly, she favored planned economic development, but not at the expense of cultural identity. Her use of familiar symbols in a readily accessible style also served her goal of being popularly understood; in turn, Kahlo is viewed by some Mexicans as a mythic figure representative of nationalism itself.

199706_1-RC_1_6

Which one of the following best describes the organization of the third paragraph?

Painter Frida Kahlo (1910–1954) often used harrowing images derived from her Mexican heritage to express suffering caused by a disabling accident and a stormy marriage. Suggesting much personal and emotional content, her works—many of them self-portraits—have been exhaustively psychoanalyzed, while their political content has been less studied. Yet Kahlo was an ardent political activist who in her art sought not only to explore her own roots, but also to champion Mexico's struggle for an independent political and cultural identity. Kahlo was influenced by Marxism, which appealed to many intellectuals in the 1920s and 1930s, and by Mexican nationalism. Interest in Mexico's culture and history had revived in the nineteenth century, and by the early 1900s, Mexican indigenista tendencies ranged from a violently anti-Spanish idealization of Aztec Mexico to an emphasis on contemporary Mexican Indians as the key to authentic Mexican culture. Mexican nationalism, reacting against contemporary United States political intervention in labor disputes as well as against past domination by Spain, identified the Aztecs as the last independent rulers of an indigenous political unit. Kahlo's form of Mexicanidad, a romantic nationalism that focused upon traditional art uniting all indigenistas, revered the Aztecs as a powerful pre-Columbian society that had united a large area of the Middle Americas and that was thought to have been based on communal labor, the Marxist ideal. In her paintings, Kahlo repeatedly employed Aztec symbols, such as skeletons or bleeding hearts, that were traditionally related to the emanation of life from death and light from darkness. These images of destruction coupled with creation speak not only to Kahlo's personal battle for life, but also to the Mexican struggle to emerge as a nation—by implication, to emerge with the political and cultural strength admired in the Aztec civilization. Self-Portrait on the Border between Mexico and the United States (1932), for example, shows Kahlo wearing a bone necklace, holding a Mexican flag, and standing between a highly industrialized United States and an agricultural, preindustrial Mexico. On the United States side are mechanistic and modern images such as smokestacks, light bulbs, and robots. In contrast, the organic and ancient symbols on the Mexican side—a blood-drenched Sun, lush vegetation, an Aztec sculpture, a pre-Columbian temple, and a skull alluding to those that lined the walls of Aztec temples emphasize the interrelation of life, death, the earth, and the cosmos. Kahlo portrayed Aztec images in the folkloric style of traditional Mexican paintings, thereby heightening the clash between modern materialism and indigenous tradition; similarly, she favored planned economic development, but not at the expense of cultural identity. Her use of familiar symbols in a readily accessible style also served her goal of being popularly understood; in turn, Kahlo is viewed by some Mexicans as a mythic figure representative of nationalism itself.

199706_1-RC_1_7

The passage implies that Kahlo's attitude toward the economic development of Mexico was

Painter Frida Kahlo (1910–1954) often used harrowing images derived from her Mexican heritage to express suffering caused by a disabling accident and a stormy marriage. Suggesting much personal and emotional content, her works—many of them self-portraits—have been exhaustively psychoanalyzed, while their political content has been less studied. Yet Kahlo was an ardent political activist who in her art sought not only to explore her own roots, but also to champion Mexico's struggle for an independent political and cultural identity. Kahlo was influenced by Marxism, which appealed to many intellectuals in the 1920s and 1930s, and by Mexican nationalism. Interest in Mexico's culture and history had revived in the nineteenth century, and by the early 1900s, Mexican indigenista tendencies ranged from a violently anti-Spanish idealization of Aztec Mexico to an emphasis on contemporary Mexican Indians as the key to authentic Mexican culture. Mexican nationalism, reacting against contemporary United States political intervention in labor disputes as well as against past domination by Spain, identified the Aztecs as the last independent rulers of an indigenous political unit. Kahlo's form of Mexicanidad, a romantic nationalism that focused upon traditional art uniting all indigenistas, revered the Aztecs as a powerful pre-Columbian society that had united a large area of the Middle Americas and that was thought to have been based on communal labor, the Marxist ideal. In her paintings, Kahlo repeatedly employed Aztec symbols, such as skeletons or bleeding hearts, that were traditionally related to the emanation of life from death and light from darkness. These images of destruction coupled with creation speak not only to Kahlo's personal battle for life, but also to the Mexican struggle to emerge as a nation—by implication, to emerge with the political and cultural strength admired in the Aztec civilization. Self-Portrait on the Border between Mexico and the United States (1932), for example, shows Kahlo wearing a bone necklace, holding a Mexican flag, and standing between a highly industrialized United States and an agricultural, preindustrial Mexico. On the United States side are mechanistic and modern images such as smokestacks, light bulbs, and robots. In contrast, the organic and ancient symbols on the Mexican side—a blood-drenched Sun, lush vegetation, an Aztec sculpture, a pre-Columbian temple, and a skull alluding to those that lined the walls of Aztec temples emphasize the interrelation of life, death, the earth, and the cosmos. Kahlo portrayed Aztec images in the folkloric style of traditional Mexican paintings, thereby heightening the clash between modern materialism and indigenous tradition; similarly, she favored planned economic development, but not at the expense of cultural identity. Her use of familiar symbols in a readily accessible style also served her goal of being popularly understood; in turn, Kahlo is viewed by some Mexicans as a mythic figure representative of nationalism itself.

199706_1-RC_1_8

The main purpose of the passage is to

In recent years, a growing belief that the way society decides what to treat as true is controlled through largely unrecognized discursive practices has led legal reformers to examine the complex interconnections between narrative and law. In many legal systems, legal judgments are based on competing stories about events. Without having witnessed these events, judges and juries must validate some stories as true and reject others as false. This procedure is rooted in objectivism, a philosophical approach that has supported most Western legal and intellectual systems for centuries. Objectivism holds that there is a single neutral description of each event that is unskewed by any particular point of view and that has a privileged position over all other accounts. The law's quest for truth, therefore, consists of locating this objective description, the one that tells what really happened, as opposed to what those involved thought happened. The serious flaw in objectivism is that there is no such thing as the neutral, objective observer. As psychologists have demonstrated, all observers bring to a situation a set of expectations, values, and beliefs that determine what the observers are able to see and hear. Two individuals listening to the same story will hear different things, because they emphasize those aspects that accord with their learned experiences and ignore those aspects that are dissonant with their view of the world. Hence there is never any escape in life or in law from selective perception, or from subjective judgments based on prior experiences, values, and beliefs. The societal harm caused by the assumption of objectivist principles in traditional legal discourse is that, historically, the stories judged to be objectively true are those told by people who are trained in legal discourse, while the stories of those who are not fluent in the language of the law are rejected as false. Legal scholars such as Patricia Williams, Derrick Bell, and Mari Matsuda have sought empowerment for the latter group of people through the construction of alternative legal narratives. Objectivist legal discourse systematically disallows the language of emotion and experience by focusing on cognition in its narrowest sense. These legal reformers propose replacing such abstract discourse with powerful personal stories. They argue that the absorbing, nonthreatening structure and tone of personal stories may convince legal insiders for the first time to listen to those not fluent in legal language. The compelling force of personal narrative can create a sense of empathy between legal insiders and people traditionally excluded from legal discourse and, hence, from power. Such alternative narratives can shatter the complacency of the legal establishment and disturb its tranquility. Thus, the engaging power of narrative might play a crucial, positive role in the process of legal reconstruction by overcoming differences in background and training and forming a new collectivity based on emotional empathy.

199706_1-RC_2_9

Which one of the following best states the main idea of the passage?

In recent years, a growing belief that the way society decides what to treat as true is controlled through largely unrecognized discursive practices has led legal reformers to examine the complex interconnections between narrative and law. In many legal systems, legal judgments are based on competing stories about events. Without having witnessed these events, judges and juries must validate some stories as true and reject others as false. This procedure is rooted in objectivism, a philosophical approach that has supported most Western legal and intellectual systems for centuries. Objectivism holds that there is a single neutral description of each event that is unskewed by any particular point of view and that has a privileged position over all other accounts. The law's quest for truth, therefore, consists of locating this objective description, the one that tells what really happened, as opposed to what those involved thought happened. The serious flaw in objectivism is that there is no such thing as the neutral, objective observer. As psychologists have demonstrated, all observers bring to a situation a set of expectations, values, and beliefs that determine what the observers are able to see and hear. Two individuals listening to the same story will hear different things, because they emphasize those aspects that accord with their learned experiences and ignore those aspects that are dissonant with their view of the world. Hence there is never any escape in life or in law from selective perception, or from subjective judgments based on prior experiences, values, and beliefs. The societal harm caused by the assumption of objectivist principles in traditional legal discourse is that, historically, the stories judged to be objectively true are those told by people who are trained in legal discourse, while the stories of those who are not fluent in the language of the law are rejected as false. Legal scholars such as Patricia Williams, Derrick Bell, and Mari Matsuda have sought empowerment for the latter group of people through the construction of alternative legal narratives. Objectivist legal discourse systematically disallows the language of emotion and experience by focusing on cognition in its narrowest sense. These legal reformers propose replacing such abstract discourse with powerful personal stories. They argue that the absorbing, nonthreatening structure and tone of personal stories may convince legal insiders for the first time to listen to those not fluent in legal language. The compelling force of personal narrative can create a sense of empathy between legal insiders and people traditionally excluded from legal discourse and, hence, from power. Such alternative narratives can shatter the complacency of the legal establishment and disturb its tranquility. Thus, the engaging power of narrative might play a crucial, positive role in the process of legal reconstruction by overcoming differences in background and training and forming a new collectivity based on emotional empathy.

199706_1-RC_2_10

According to the passage, which one of the following is true about the intellectual systems mentioned in line 11?

In recent years, a growing belief that the way society decides what to treat as true is controlled through largely unrecognized discursive practices has led legal reformers to examine the complex interconnections between narrative and law. In many legal systems, legal judgments are based on competing stories about events. Without having witnessed these events, judges and juries must validate some stories as true and reject others as false. This procedure is rooted in objectivism, a philosophical approach that has supported most Western legal and intellectual systems for centuries. Objectivism holds that there is a single neutral description of each event that is unskewed by any particular point of view and that has a privileged position over all other accounts. The law's quest for truth, therefore, consists of locating this objective description, the one that tells what really happened, as opposed to what those involved thought happened. The serious flaw in objectivism is that there is no such thing as the neutral, objective observer. As psychologists have demonstrated, all observers bring to a situation a set of expectations, values, and beliefs that determine what the observers are able to see and hear. Two individuals listening to the same story will hear different things, because they emphasize those aspects that accord with their learned experiences and ignore those aspects that are dissonant with their view of the world. Hence there is never any escape in life or in law from selective perception, or from subjective judgments based on prior experiences, values, and beliefs. The societal harm caused by the assumption of objectivist principles in traditional legal discourse is that, historically, the stories judged to be objectively true are those told by people who are trained in legal discourse, while the stories of those who are not fluent in the language of the law are rejected as false. Legal scholars such as Patricia Williams, Derrick Bell, and Mari Matsuda have sought empowerment for the latter group of people through the construction of alternative legal narratives. Objectivist legal discourse systematically disallows the language of emotion and experience by focusing on cognition in its narrowest sense. These legal reformers propose replacing such abstract discourse with powerful personal stories. They argue that the absorbing, nonthreatening structure and tone of personal stories may convince legal insiders for the first time to listen to those not fluent in legal language. The compelling force of personal narrative can create a sense of empathy between legal insiders and people traditionally excluded from legal discourse and, hence, from power. Such alternative narratives can shatter the complacency of the legal establishment and disturb its tranquility. Thus, the engaging power of narrative might play a crucial, positive role in the process of legal reconstruction by overcoming differences in background and training and forming a new collectivity based on emotional empathy.

199706_1-RC_2_11

Which one of the following best describes the sense of "cognition" referred to in line 43 of the passage?

In recent years, a growing belief that the way society decides what to treat as true is controlled through largely unrecognized discursive practices has led legal reformers to examine the complex interconnections between narrative and law. In many legal systems, legal judgments are based on competing stories about events. Without having witnessed these events, judges and juries must validate some stories as true and reject others as false. This procedure is rooted in objectivism, a philosophical approach that has supported most Western legal and intellectual systems for centuries. Objectivism holds that there is a single neutral description of each event that is unskewed by any particular point of view and that has a privileged position over all other accounts. The law's quest for truth, therefore, consists of locating this objective description, the one that tells what really happened, as opposed to what those involved thought happened. The serious flaw in objectivism is that there is no such thing as the neutral, objective observer. As psychologists have demonstrated, all observers bring to a situation a set of expectations, values, and beliefs that determine what the observers are able to see and hear. Two individuals listening to the same story will hear different things, because they emphasize those aspects that accord with their learned experiences and ignore those aspects that are dissonant with their view of the world. Hence there is never any escape in life or in law from selective perception, or from subjective judgments based on prior experiences, values, and beliefs. The societal harm caused by the assumption of objectivist principles in traditional legal discourse is that, historically, the stories judged to be objectively true are those told by people who are trained in legal discourse, while the stories of those who are not fluent in the language of the law are rejected as false. Legal scholars such as Patricia Williams, Derrick Bell, and Mari Matsuda have sought empowerment for the latter group of people through the construction of alternative legal narratives. Objectivist legal discourse systematically disallows the language of emotion and experience by focusing on cognition in its narrowest sense. These legal reformers propose replacing such abstract discourse with powerful personal stories. They argue that the absorbing, nonthreatening structure and tone of personal stories may convince legal insiders for the first time to listen to those not fluent in legal language. The compelling force of personal narrative can create a sense of empathy between legal insiders and people traditionally excluded from legal discourse and, hence, from power. Such alternative narratives can shatter the complacency of the legal establishment and disturb its tranquility. Thus, the engaging power of narrative might play a crucial, positive role in the process of legal reconstruction by overcoming differences in background and training and forming a new collectivity based on emotional empathy.

199706_1-RC_2_12

It can be inferred from the passage that Williams' Bell, and Matsuda believe which one of the following to be a central component of legal reform?

In recent years, a growing belief that the way society decides what to treat as true is controlled through largely unrecognized discursive practices has led legal reformers to examine the complex interconnections between narrative and law. In many legal systems, legal judgments are based on competing stories about events. Without having witnessed these events, judges and juries must validate some stories as true and reject others as false. This procedure is rooted in objectivism, a philosophical approach that has supported most Western legal and intellectual systems for centuries. Objectivism holds that there is a single neutral description of each event that is unskewed by any particular point of view and that has a privileged position over all other accounts. The law's quest for truth, therefore, consists of locating this objective description, the one that tells what really happened, as opposed to what those involved thought happened. The serious flaw in objectivism is that there is no such thing as the neutral, objective observer. As psychologists have demonstrated, all observers bring to a situation a set of expectations, values, and beliefs that determine what the observers are able to see and hear. Two individuals listening to the same story will hear different things, because they emphasize those aspects that accord with their learned experiences and ignore those aspects that are dissonant with their view of the world. Hence there is never any escape in life or in law from selective perception, or from subjective judgments based on prior experiences, values, and beliefs. The societal harm caused by the assumption of objectivist principles in traditional legal discourse is that, historically, the stories judged to be objectively true are those told by people who are trained in legal discourse, while the stories of those who are not fluent in the language of the law are rejected as false. Legal scholars such as Patricia Williams, Derrick Bell, and Mari Matsuda have sought empowerment for the latter group of people through the construction of alternative legal narratives. Objectivist legal discourse systematically disallows the language of emotion and experience by focusing on cognition in its narrowest sense. These legal reformers propose replacing such abstract discourse with powerful personal stories. They argue that the absorbing, nonthreatening structure and tone of personal stories may convince legal insiders for the first time to listen to those not fluent in legal language. The compelling force of personal narrative can create a sense of empathy between legal insiders and people traditionally excluded from legal discourse and, hence, from power. Such alternative narratives can shatter the complacency of the legal establishment and disturb its tranquility. Thus, the engaging power of narrative might play a crucial, positive role in the process of legal reconstruction by overcoming differences in background and training and forming a new collectivity based on emotional empathy.

199706_1-RC_2_13

Which one of the following most accurately describes the author's attitude toward proposals to introduce personal stories into legal discourse?

In recent years, a growing belief that the way society decides what to treat as true is controlled through largely unrecognized discursive practices has led legal reformers to examine the complex interconnections between narrative and law. In many legal systems, legal judgments are based on competing stories about events. Without having witnessed these events, judges and juries must validate some stories as true and reject others as false. This procedure is rooted in objectivism, a philosophical approach that has supported most Western legal and intellectual systems for centuries. Objectivism holds that there is a single neutral description of each event that is unskewed by any particular point of view and that has a privileged position over all other accounts. The law's quest for truth, therefore, consists of locating this objective description, the one that tells what really happened, as opposed to what those involved thought happened. The serious flaw in objectivism is that there is no such thing as the neutral, objective observer. As psychologists have demonstrated, all observers bring to a situation a set of expectations, values, and beliefs that determine what the observers are able to see and hear. Two individuals listening to the same story will hear different things, because they emphasize those aspects that accord with their learned experiences and ignore those aspects that are dissonant with their view of the world. Hence there is never any escape in life or in law from selective perception, or from subjective judgments based on prior experiences, values, and beliefs. The societal harm caused by the assumption of objectivist principles in traditional legal discourse is that, historically, the stories judged to be objectively true are those told by people who are trained in legal discourse, while the stories of those who are not fluent in the language of the law are rejected as false. Legal scholars such as Patricia Williams, Derrick Bell, and Mari Matsuda have sought empowerment for the latter group of people through the construction of alternative legal narratives. Objectivist legal discourse systematically disallows the language of emotion and experience by focusing on cognition in its narrowest sense. These legal reformers propose replacing such abstract discourse with powerful personal stories. They argue that the absorbing, nonthreatening structure and tone of personal stories may convince legal insiders for the first time to listen to those not fluent in legal language. The compelling force of personal narrative can create a sense of empathy between legal insiders and people traditionally excluded from legal discourse and, hence, from power. Such alternative narratives can shatter the complacency of the legal establishment and disturb its tranquility. Thus, the engaging power of narrative might play a crucial, positive role in the process of legal reconstruction by overcoming differences in background and training and forming a new collectivity based on emotional empathy.

199706_1-RC_2_14

The passage suggests that Williams, Bell, and Matsuda would most likely agree with which one of the following statements regarding personal stories?

In recent years, a growing belief that the way society decides what to treat as true is controlled through largely unrecognized discursive practices has led legal reformers to examine the complex interconnections between narrative and law. In many legal systems, legal judgments are based on competing stories about events. Without having witnessed these events, judges and juries must validate some stories as true and reject others as false. This procedure is rooted in objectivism, a philosophical approach that has supported most Western legal and intellectual systems for centuries. Objectivism holds that there is a single neutral description of each event that is unskewed by any particular point of view and that has a privileged position over all other accounts. The law's quest for truth, therefore, consists of locating this objective description, the one that tells what really happened, as opposed to what those involved thought happened. The serious flaw in objectivism is that there is no such thing as the neutral, objective observer. As psychologists have demonstrated, all observers bring to a situation a set of expectations, values, and beliefs that determine what the observers are able to see and hear. Two individuals listening to the same story will hear different things, because they emphasize those aspects that accord with their learned experiences and ignore those aspects that are dissonant with their view of the world. Hence there is never any escape in life or in law from selective perception, or from subjective judgments based on prior experiences, values, and beliefs. The societal harm caused by the assumption of objectivist principles in traditional legal discourse is that, historically, the stories judged to be objectively true are those told by people who are trained in legal discourse, while the stories of those who are not fluent in the language of the law are rejected as false. Legal scholars such as Patricia Williams, Derrick Bell, and Mari Matsuda have sought empowerment for the latter group of people through the construction of alternative legal narratives. Objectivist legal discourse systematically disallows the language of emotion and experience by focusing on cognition in its narrowest sense. These legal reformers propose replacing such abstract discourse with powerful personal stories. They argue that the absorbing, nonthreatening structure and tone of personal stories may convince legal insiders for the first time to listen to those not fluent in legal language. The compelling force of personal narrative can create a sense of empathy between legal insiders and people traditionally excluded from legal discourse and, hence, from power. Such alternative narratives can shatter the complacency of the legal establishment and disturb its tranquility. Thus, the engaging power of narrative might play a crucial, positive role in the process of legal reconstruction by overcoming differences in background and training and forming a new collectivity based on emotional empathy.

199706_1-RC_2_15

Which one of the following statements about legal discourse in legal systems based on objectivism can be inferred from the passage?

In recent years, a growing belief that the way society decides what to treat as true is controlled through largely unrecognized discursive practices has led legal reformers to examine the complex interconnections between narrative and law. In many legal systems, legal judgments are based on competing stories about events. Without having witnessed these events, judges and juries must validate some stories as true and reject others as false. This procedure is rooted in objectivism, a philosophical approach that has supported most Western legal and intellectual systems for centuries. Objectivism holds that there is a single neutral description of each event that is unskewed by any particular point of view and that has a privileged position over all other accounts. The law's quest for truth, therefore, consists of locating this objective description, the one that tells what really happened, as opposed to what those involved thought happened. The serious flaw in objectivism is that there is no such thing as the neutral, objective observer. As psychologists have demonstrated, all observers bring to a situation a set of expectations, values, and beliefs that determine what the observers are able to see and hear. Two individuals listening to the same story will hear different things, because they emphasize those aspects that accord with their learned experiences and ignore those aspects that are dissonant with their view of the world. Hence there is never any escape in life or in law from selective perception, or from subjective judgments based on prior experiences, values, and beliefs. The societal harm caused by the assumption of objectivist principles in traditional legal discourse is that, historically, the stories judged to be objectively true are those told by people who are trained in legal discourse, while the stories of those who are not fluent in the language of the law are rejected as false. Legal scholars such as Patricia Williams, Derrick Bell, and Mari Matsuda have sought empowerment for the latter group of people through the construction of alternative legal narratives. Objectivist legal discourse systematically disallows the language of emotion and experience by focusing on cognition in its narrowest sense. These legal reformers propose replacing such abstract discourse with powerful personal stories. They argue that the absorbing, nonthreatening structure and tone of personal stories may convince legal insiders for the first time to listen to those not fluent in legal language. The compelling force of personal narrative can create a sense of empathy between legal insiders and people traditionally excluded from legal discourse and, hence, from power. Such alternative narratives can shatter the complacency of the legal establishment and disturb its tranquility. Thus, the engaging power of narrative might play a crucial, positive role in the process of legal reconstruction by overcoming differences in background and training and forming a new collectivity based on emotional empathy.

199706_1-RC_2_16

Those who reject objectivism would regard "the law's quest for truth" (lines 15–16) as most similar to which one of the following?

Many people complain about corporations, but there are also those whose criticism goes further and who hold corporations morally to blame for many of the problems in Western society. Their criticism is not reserved solely for fraudulent or illegal business activities, but extends to the basic corporate practice of making decisions based on what will maximize profits without regard to whether such decisions will contribute to the public good. Others, mainly economists, have responded that this criticism is flawed because it inappropriately applies ethical principles to economic relationships. It is only by extension that we attribute the quality of morality to corporations, for corporations are not persons. Corporate responsibility is an aggregation of the responsibilities of those persons employed by the corporation when they act in and on behalf of the corporation. Some corporations are owner operated, but in many corporations and in most larger ones there is a syndicate of owners to whom the chief executive officer, or CEO, who runs the corporation is said to have a fiduciary obligation. The economists argue that a CEO's sole responsibility is to the owners, whose primary interest, except in charitable institutions, is the protection of their profits. CEOs are bound, as a condition of their employment, to seek a profit for the owners. But suppose a noncharitable organization is owner operated, or, for some other reason, its CEO is not obligated to maximize profits. The economists' view is that even if such a CEO's purpose is to look to the public good and nothing else, the CEO should still work to maximize profits, because that will turn out best for the public anyway. But the economists' position does not hold up under careful scrutiny. For one thing, although there are, no doubt, strong underlying dynamics in national and international economies that tend to make the pursuit of corporate interest contribute to the public good, there is no guarantee—either theoretically or in practice—that a given CEO will benefit the public by maximizing corporate profit. It is absurd to deny the possibility, say, of a paper mill legally maximizing its profits over a five-year period by decimating a forest for its wood or polluting a lake with its industrial waste. Furthermore, while obligations such as those of corporate CEOs to corporate owners are binding in a business or legal sense, they are not morally paramount. The CEO could make a case to the owners that certain profitable courses of action should not be taken because they are likely to detract from the public good. The economic consequences that may befall the CEO for doing so, such as penalty or dismissal, ultimately do not excuse the individual from the responsibility for acting morally.

199706_1-RC_3_17

Which one of the following most accurately states the main point of the passage?

Many people complain about corporations, but there are also those whose criticism goes further and who hold corporations morally to blame for many of the problems in Western society. Their criticism is not reserved solely for fraudulent or illegal business activities, but extends to the basic corporate practice of making decisions based on what will maximize profits without regard to whether such decisions will contribute to the public good. Others, mainly economists, have responded that this criticism is flawed because it inappropriately applies ethical principles to economic relationships. It is only by extension that we attribute the quality of morality to corporations, for corporations are not persons. Corporate responsibility is an aggregation of the responsibilities of those persons employed by the corporation when they act in and on behalf of the corporation. Some corporations are owner operated, but in many corporations and in most larger ones there is a syndicate of owners to whom the chief executive officer, or CEO, who runs the corporation is said to have a fiduciary obligation. The economists argue that a CEO's sole responsibility is to the owners, whose primary interest, except in charitable institutions, is the protection of their profits. CEOs are bound, as a condition of their employment, to seek a profit for the owners. But suppose a noncharitable organization is owner operated, or, for some other reason, its CEO is not obligated to maximize profits. The economists' view is that even if such a CEO's purpose is to look to the public good and nothing else, the CEO should still work to maximize profits, because that will turn out best for the public anyway. But the economists' position does not hold up under careful scrutiny. For one thing, although there are, no doubt, strong underlying dynamics in national and international economies that tend to make the pursuit of corporate interest contribute to the public good, there is no guarantee—either theoretically or in practice—that a given CEO will benefit the public by maximizing corporate profit. It is absurd to deny the possibility, say, of a paper mill legally maximizing its profits over a five-year period by decimating a forest for its wood or polluting a lake with its industrial waste. Furthermore, while obligations such as those of corporate CEOs to corporate owners are binding in a business or legal sense, they are not morally paramount. The CEO could make a case to the owners that certain profitable courses of action should not be taken because they are likely to detract from the public good. The economic consequences that may befall the CEO for doing so, such as penalty or dismissal, ultimately do not excuse the individual from the responsibility for acting morally.

199706_1-RC_3_18

The discussion of the paper mill in lines 42–46 is intended primarily to

Many people complain about corporations, but there are also those whose criticism goes further and who hold corporations morally to blame for many of the problems in Western society. Their criticism is not reserved solely for fraudulent or illegal business activities, but extends to the basic corporate practice of making decisions based on what will maximize profits without regard to whether such decisions will contribute to the public good. Others, mainly economists, have responded that this criticism is flawed because it inappropriately applies ethical principles to economic relationships. It is only by extension that we attribute the quality of morality to corporations, for corporations are not persons. Corporate responsibility is an aggregation of the responsibilities of those persons employed by the corporation when they act in and on behalf of the corporation. Some corporations are owner operated, but in many corporations and in most larger ones there is a syndicate of owners to whom the chief executive officer, or CEO, who runs the corporation is said to have a fiduciary obligation. The economists argue that a CEO's sole responsibility is to the owners, whose primary interest, except in charitable institutions, is the protection of their profits. CEOs are bound, as a condition of their employment, to seek a profit for the owners. But suppose a noncharitable organization is owner operated, or, for some other reason, its CEO is not obligated to maximize profits. The economists' view is that even if such a CEO's purpose is to look to the public good and nothing else, the CEO should still work to maximize profits, because that will turn out best for the public anyway. But the economists' position does not hold up under careful scrutiny. For one thing, although there are, no doubt, strong underlying dynamics in national and international economies that tend to make the pursuit of corporate interest contribute to the public good, there is no guarantee—either theoretically or in practice—that a given CEO will benefit the public by maximizing corporate profit. It is absurd to deny the possibility, say, of a paper mill legally maximizing its profits over a five-year period by decimating a forest for its wood or polluting a lake with its industrial waste. Furthermore, while obligations such as those of corporate CEOs to corporate owners are binding in a business or legal sense, they are not morally paramount. The CEO could make a case to the owners that certain profitable courses of action should not be taken because they are likely to detract from the public good. The economic consequences that may befall the CEO for doing so, such as penalty or dismissal, ultimately do not excuse the individual from the responsibility for acting morally.

199706_1-RC_3_19

With which one of the following would the economists mentioned in the passage be most likely to agree?

Many people complain about corporations, but there are also those whose criticism goes further and who hold corporations morally to blame for many of the problems in Western society. Their criticism is not reserved solely for fraudulent or illegal business activities, but extends to the basic corporate practice of making decisions based on what will maximize profits without regard to whether such decisions will contribute to the public good. Others, mainly economists, have responded that this criticism is flawed because it inappropriately applies ethical principles to economic relationships. It is only by extension that we attribute the quality of morality to corporations, for corporations are not persons. Corporate responsibility is an aggregation of the responsibilities of those persons employed by the corporation when they act in and on behalf of the corporation. Some corporations are owner operated, but in many corporations and in most larger ones there is a syndicate of owners to whom the chief executive officer, or CEO, who runs the corporation is said to have a fiduciary obligation. The economists argue that a CEO's sole responsibility is to the owners, whose primary interest, except in charitable institutions, is the protection of their profits. CEOs are bound, as a condition of their employment, to seek a profit for the owners. But suppose a noncharitable organization is owner operated, or, for some other reason, its CEO is not obligated to maximize profits. The economists' view is that even if such a CEO's purpose is to look to the public good and nothing else, the CEO should still work to maximize profits, because that will turn out best for the public anyway. But the economists' position does not hold up under careful scrutiny. For one thing, although there are, no doubt, strong underlying dynamics in national and international economies that tend to make the pursuit of corporate interest contribute to the public good, there is no guarantee—either theoretically or in practice—that a given CEO will benefit the public by maximizing corporate profit. It is absurd to deny the possibility, say, of a paper mill legally maximizing its profits over a five-year period by decimating a forest for its wood or polluting a lake with its industrial waste. Furthermore, while obligations such as those of corporate CEOs to corporate owners are binding in a business or legal sense, they are not morally paramount. The CEO could make a case to the owners that certain profitable courses of action should not be taken because they are likely to detract from the public good. The economic consequences that may befall the CEO for doing so, such as penalty or dismissal, ultimately do not excuse the individual from the responsibility for acting morally.

199706_1-RC_3_20

The conception of morality that underlies the author's argument in the passage is best expressed by which one of the following principles?

Many people complain about corporations, but there are also those whose criticism goes further and who hold corporations morally to blame for many of the problems in Western society. Their criticism is not reserved solely for fraudulent or illegal business activities, but extends to the basic corporate practice of making decisions based on what will maximize profits without regard to whether such decisions will contribute to the public good. Others, mainly economists, have responded that this criticism is flawed because it inappropriately applies ethical principles to economic relationships. It is only by extension that we attribute the quality of morality to corporations, for corporations are not persons. Corporate responsibility is an aggregation of the responsibilities of those persons employed by the corporation when they act in and on behalf of the corporation. Some corporations are owner operated, but in many corporations and in most larger ones there is a syndicate of owners to whom the chief executive officer, or CEO, who runs the corporation is said to have a fiduciary obligation. The economists argue that a CEO's sole responsibility is to the owners, whose primary interest, except in charitable institutions, is the protection of their profits. CEOs are bound, as a condition of their employment, to seek a profit for the owners. But suppose a noncharitable organization is owner operated, or, for some other reason, its CEO is not obligated to maximize profits. The economists' view is that even if such a CEO's purpose is to look to the public good and nothing else, the CEO should still work to maximize profits, because that will turn out best for the public anyway. But the economists' position does not hold up under careful scrutiny. For one thing, although there are, no doubt, strong underlying dynamics in national and international economies that tend to make the pursuit of corporate interest contribute to the public good, there is no guarantee—either theoretically or in practice—that a given CEO will benefit the public by maximizing corporate profit. It is absurd to deny the possibility, say, of a paper mill legally maximizing its profits over a five-year period by decimating a forest for its wood or polluting a lake with its industrial waste. Furthermore, while obligations such as those of corporate CEOs to corporate owners are binding in a business or legal sense, they are not morally paramount. The CEO could make a case to the owners that certain profitable courses of action should not be taken because they are likely to detract from the public good. The economic consequences that may befall the CEO for doing so, such as penalty or dismissal, ultimately do not excuse the individual from the responsibility for acting morally.

199706_1-RC_3_21

The primary purpose of the passage is to

What it means to "explain" something in science often comes down to the application of mathematics. Some thinkers hold that mathematics is a kind of language—a systematic contrivance of signs, the criteria for the authority of which are internal coherence, elegance, and depth. The application of such a highly artificial system to the physical world, they claim, results in the creation of a kind of statement about the world. Accordingly, what matters in the sciences is finding a mathematical concept that attempts, as other language does, to accurately describe the functioning of some aspect of the world. At the center of the issue of scientific knowledge can thus be found questions about the relationship between language and what it refers to. A discussion about the role played by language in the pursuit of knowledge has been going on among linguists for several decades. The debate centers around whether language corresponds in some essential way to objects and behaviors, making knowledge a solid and reliable commodity; or, on the other hand, whether the relationship between language and things is purely a matter of agreed-upon conventions, making knowledge tenuous, relative, and inexact. Lately the latter theory has been gaining wider acceptance. According to linguists who support this theory, the way language is used varies depending upon changes in accepted practices and theories among those who work in a particular discipline. These linguists argue that, in the pursuit of knowledge, a statement is true only when there are no promising alternatives that might lead one to question it. Certainly this characterization would seem to be applicable to the sciences. In science, a mathematical statement may be taken to account for every aspect of a phenomenon it is applied to, but, some would argue, there is nothing inherent in mathematical language that guarantees such a correspondence. Under this view, acceptance of a mathematical statement by the scientific community— by virtue of the statement' s predictive power or methodological efficiency—transforms what is basically an analogy or metaphor into an explanation of the physical process in question, to be held as true until another, more compelling analogy takes its place. In pursuing the implications of this theory, linguists have reached the point at which they must ask: If words or sentences do not correspond in an essential way to life or to our ideas about life, then just what are they capable of telling us about the world? In science and mathematics, then, it would seem equally necessary to ask: If models of electrolytes or E = mc2, say, do not correspond essentially to the physical world, then just what functions do they perform in the acquisition of scientific knowledge? But this question has yet to be significantly addressed in the sciences.

199706_1-RC_4_22

Which one of the following statements most accurately expresses the passage's main point?

What it means to "explain" something in science often comes down to the application of mathematics. Some thinkers hold that mathematics is a kind of language—a systematic contrivance of signs, the criteria for the authority of which are internal coherence, elegance, and depth. The application of such a highly artificial system to the physical world, they claim, results in the creation of a kind of statement about the world. Accordingly, what matters in the sciences is finding a mathematical concept that attempts, as other language does, to accurately describe the functioning of some aspect of the world. At the center of the issue of scientific knowledge can thus be found questions about the relationship between language and what it refers to. A discussion about the role played by language in the pursuit of knowledge has been going on among linguists for several decades. The debate centers around whether language corresponds in some essential way to objects and behaviors, making knowledge a solid and reliable commodity; or, on the other hand, whether the relationship between language and things is purely a matter of agreed-upon conventions, making knowledge tenuous, relative, and inexact. Lately the latter theory has been gaining wider acceptance. According to linguists who support this theory, the way language is used varies depending upon changes in accepted practices and theories among those who work in a particular discipline. These linguists argue that, in the pursuit of knowledge, a statement is true only when there are no promising alternatives that might lead one to question it. Certainly this characterization would seem to be applicable to the sciences. In science, a mathematical statement may be taken to account for every aspect of a phenomenon it is applied to, but, some would argue, there is nothing inherent in mathematical language that guarantees such a correspondence. Under this view, acceptance of a mathematical statement by the scientific community— by virtue of the statement' s predictive power or methodological efficiency—transforms what is basically an analogy or metaphor into an explanation of the physical process in question, to be held as true until another, more compelling analogy takes its place. In pursuing the implications of this theory, linguists have reached the point at which they must ask: If words or sentences do not correspond in an essential way to life or to our ideas about life, then just what are they capable of telling us about the world? In science and mathematics, then, it would seem equally necessary to ask: If models of electrolytes or E = mc2, say, do not correspond essentially to the physical world, then just what functions do they perform in the acquisition of scientific knowledge? But this question has yet to be significantly addressed in the sciences.

199706_1-RC_4_23

Which one of the following statements, if true, lends the most support to the view that language has an essential correspondence to the things it describes?

What it means to "explain" something in science often comes down to the application of mathematics. Some thinkers hold that mathematics is a kind of language—a systematic contrivance of signs, the criteria for the authority of which are internal coherence, elegance, and depth. The application of such a highly artificial system to the physical world, they claim, results in the creation of a kind of statement about the world. Accordingly, what matters in the sciences is finding a mathematical concept that attempts, as other language does, to accurately describe the functioning of some aspect of the world. At the center of the issue of scientific knowledge can thus be found questions about the relationship between language and what it refers to. A discussion about the role played by language in the pursuit of knowledge has been going on among linguists for several decades. The debate centers around whether language corresponds in some essential way to objects and behaviors, making knowledge a solid and reliable commodity; or, on the other hand, whether the relationship between language and things is purely a matter of agreed-upon conventions, making knowledge tenuous, relative, and inexact. Lately the latter theory has been gaining wider acceptance. According to linguists who support this theory, the way language is used varies depending upon changes in accepted practices and theories among those who work in a particular discipline. These linguists argue that, in the pursuit of knowledge, a statement is true only when there are no promising alternatives that might lead one to question it. Certainly this characterization would seem to be applicable to the sciences. In science, a mathematical statement may be taken to account for every aspect of a phenomenon it is applied to, but, some would argue, there is nothing inherent in mathematical language that guarantees such a correspondence. Under this view, acceptance of a mathematical statement by the scientific community— by virtue of the statement' s predictive power or methodological efficiency—transforms what is basically an analogy or metaphor into an explanation of the physical process in question, to be held as true until another, more compelling analogy takes its place. In pursuing the implications of this theory, linguists have reached the point at which they must ask: If words or sentences do not correspond in an essential way to life or to our ideas about life, then just what are they capable of telling us about the world? In science and mathematics, then, it would seem equally necessary to ask: If models of electrolytes or E = mc2, say, do not correspond essentially to the physical world, then just what functions do they perform in the acquisition of scientific knowledge? But this question has yet to be significantly addressed in the sciences.

199706_1-RC_4_24

According to the passage, mathematics can be considered a language because it

What it means to "explain" something in science often comes down to the application of mathematics. Some thinkers hold that mathematics is a kind of language—a systematic contrivance of signs, the criteria for the authority of which are internal coherence, elegance, and depth. The application of such a highly artificial system to the physical world, they claim, results in the creation of a kind of statement about the world. Accordingly, what matters in the sciences is finding a mathematical concept that attempts, as other language does, to accurately describe the functioning of some aspect of the world. At the center of the issue of scientific knowledge can thus be found questions about the relationship between language and what it refers to. A discussion about the role played by language in the pursuit of knowledge has been going on among linguists for several decades. The debate centers around whether language corresponds in some essential way to objects and behaviors, making knowledge a solid and reliable commodity; or, on the other hand, whether the relationship between language and things is purely a matter of agreed-upon conventions, making knowledge tenuous, relative, and inexact. Lately the latter theory has been gaining wider acceptance. According to linguists who support this theory, the way language is used varies depending upon changes in accepted practices and theories among those who work in a particular discipline. These linguists argue that, in the pursuit of knowledge, a statement is true only when there are no promising alternatives that might lead one to question it. Certainly this characterization would seem to be applicable to the sciences. In science, a mathematical statement may be taken to account for every aspect of a phenomenon it is applied to, but, some would argue, there is nothing inherent in mathematical language that guarantees such a correspondence. Under this view, acceptance of a mathematical statement by the scientific community— by virtue of the statement' s predictive power or methodological efficiency—transforms what is basically an analogy or metaphor into an explanation of the physical process in question, to be held as true until another, more compelling analogy takes its place. In pursuing the implications of this theory, linguists have reached the point at which they must ask: If words or sentences do not correspond in an essential way to life or to our ideas about life, then just what are they capable of telling us about the world? In science and mathematics, then, it would seem equally necessary to ask: If models of electrolytes or E = mc2, say, do not correspond essentially to the physical world, then just what functions do they perform in the acquisition of scientific knowledge? But this question has yet to be significantly addressed in the sciences.

199706_1-RC_4_25

The primary purpose of the third paragraph is to

What it means to "explain" something in science often comes down to the application of mathematics. Some thinkers hold that mathematics is a kind of language—a systematic contrivance of signs, the criteria for the authority of which are internal coherence, elegance, and depth. The application of such a highly artificial system to the physical world, they claim, results in the creation of a kind of statement about the world. Accordingly, what matters in the sciences is finding a mathematical concept that attempts, as other language does, to accurately describe the functioning of some aspect of the world. At the center of the issue of scientific knowledge can thus be found questions about the relationship between language and what it refers to. A discussion about the role played by language in the pursuit of knowledge has been going on among linguists for several decades. The debate centers around whether language corresponds in some essential way to objects and behaviors, making knowledge a solid and reliable commodity; or, on the other hand, whether the relationship between language and things is purely a matter of agreed-upon conventions, making knowledge tenuous, relative, and inexact. Lately the latter theory has been gaining wider acceptance. According to linguists who support this theory, the way language is used varies depending upon changes in accepted practices and theories among those who work in a particular discipline. These linguists argue that, in the pursuit of knowledge, a statement is true only when there are no promising alternatives that might lead one to question it. Certainly this characterization would seem to be applicable to the sciences. In science, a mathematical statement may be taken to account for every aspect of a phenomenon it is applied to, but, some would argue, there is nothing inherent in mathematical language that guarantees such a correspondence. Under this view, acceptance of a mathematical statement by the scientific community— by virtue of the statement' s predictive power or methodological efficiency—transforms what is basically an analogy or metaphor into an explanation of the physical process in question, to be held as true until another, more compelling analogy takes its place. In pursuing the implications of this theory, linguists have reached the point at which they must ask: If words or sentences do not correspond in an essential way to life or to our ideas about life, then just what are they capable of telling us about the world? In science and mathematics, then, it would seem equally necessary to ask: If models of electrolytes or E = mc2, say, do not correspond essentially to the physical world, then just what functions do they perform in the acquisition of scientific knowledge? But this question has yet to be significantly addressed in the sciences.

199706_1-RC_4_26

Based on the passage, linguists who subscribe to the theory described in lines 21–24 would hold that the statement "The ball is red" is true because

It has recently been discovered that many attributions of paintings to the seventeenth-century Dutch artist Rembrandt may be false. The contested paintings are not minor works, whose removal from the Rembrandt corpus would leave it relatively unaffected: they are at its very center. In her recent book, Svetlana Alpers uses these cases of disputed attribution as a point of departure for her provocative discussion of the radical distinctiveness of Rembrandt's approach to painting. Alpers argues that Rembrandt exercised an unprecedentedly firm control over his art, his students, and the distribution of his works. Despite Gary Schwartz's brilliant documentation of Rembrandt's complicated relations with a wide circle of patrons, Alpers takes the view that Rembrandt refused to submit to the prevailing patronage system. He preferred, she claims, to sell his works on the open market and to play the entrepreneur. At a time when Dutch artists were organizing into professional brotherhoods and academies, Rembrandt stood apart. In fact, Alpers' portrait of Rembrandt shows virtually every aspect of his art pervaded by economic motives. Indeed, so complete was Rembrandt's involvement with the market, she argues, that he even presented himself as a commodity, viewing his studio's products as extensions of himself, sent out into the world to earn money. Alpers asserts that Rembrandt's enterprise is found not just in his paintings, but in his refusal to limit his enterprise to those paintings he actually painted. He marketed Rembrandt. Although there may be some truth in the view that Rembrandt was an entrepreneur who made some aesthetic decisions on the basis of what he knew the market wanted, Alpers' emphasis on economic factors sacrifices discussion of the aesthetic qualities that make Rembrandt's work unique. For example, Alpers asserts that Rembrandt deliberately left his works unfinished so as to get more money for their revision and completion. She implies that Rembrandt actually wished the Council of Amsterdam to refuse the great Claudius Civilis, which they had commissioned for their new town hall, and she argues that "he must have calculated that he would be able to get more money by retouching [the] painting." Certainly the picture is painted with very broad strokes but there is no evidence that it was deliberately left unfinished. The fact is that the look of a work like Claudius Civilis must also be understood as the consequence of Rembrandt's powerful and profound meditations on painting itself. Alpers makes no mention of the pictorial dialectic that can be discerned between, say, the lessons Rembrandt absorbed from the Haarlem school of painters and the styles of his native Leiden. The trouble is that while Rembrandt's artistic enterprise may indeed not be reducible to the works he himself painted, it is not reducible to marketing practices either.

199710_4-RC_1_1

Which one of the following best summarizes the main conclusion of the author of the passage?

It has recently been discovered that many attributions of paintings to the seventeenth-century Dutch artist Rembrandt may be false. The contested paintings are not minor works, whose removal from the Rembrandt corpus would leave it relatively unaffected: they are at its very center. In her recent book, Svetlana Alpers uses these cases of disputed attribution as a point of departure for her provocative discussion of the radical distinctiveness of Rembrandt's approach to painting. Alpers argues that Rembrandt exercised an unprecedentedly firm control over his art, his students, and the distribution of his works. Despite Gary Schwartz's brilliant documentation of Rembrandt's complicated relations with a wide circle of patrons, Alpers takes the view that Rembrandt refused to submit to the prevailing patronage system. He preferred, she claims, to sell his works on the open market and to play the entrepreneur. At a time when Dutch artists were organizing into professional brotherhoods and academies, Rembrandt stood apart. In fact, Alpers' portrait of Rembrandt shows virtually every aspect of his art pervaded by economic motives. Indeed, so complete was Rembrandt's involvement with the market, she argues, that he even presented himself as a commodity, viewing his studio's products as extensions of himself, sent out into the world to earn money. Alpers asserts that Rembrandt's enterprise is found not just in his paintings, but in his refusal to limit his enterprise to those paintings he actually painted. He marketed Rembrandt. Although there may be some truth in the view that Rembrandt was an entrepreneur who made some aesthetic decisions on the basis of what he knew the market wanted, Alpers' emphasis on economic factors sacrifices discussion of the aesthetic qualities that make Rembrandt's work unique. For example, Alpers asserts that Rembrandt deliberately left his works unfinished so as to get more money for their revision and completion. She implies that Rembrandt actually wished the Council of Amsterdam to refuse the great Claudius Civilis, which they had commissioned for their new town hall, and she argues that "he must have calculated that he would be able to get more money by retouching [the] painting." Certainly the picture is painted with very broad strokes but there is no evidence that it was deliberately left unfinished. The fact is that the look of a work like Claudius Civilis must also be understood as the consequence of Rembrandt's powerful and profound meditations on painting itself. Alpers makes no mention of the pictorial dialectic that can be discerned between, say, the lessons Rembrandt absorbed from the Haarlem school of painters and the styles of his native Leiden. The trouble is that while Rembrandt's artistic enterprise may indeed not be reducible to the works he himself painted, it is not reducible to marketing practices either.

199710_4-RC_1_2

According to the passage, Alpers and Schwartz disagree about which one of the following?

It has recently been discovered that many attributions of paintings to the seventeenth-century Dutch artist Rembrandt may be false. The contested paintings are not minor works, whose removal from the Rembrandt corpus would leave it relatively unaffected: they are at its very center. In her recent book, Svetlana Alpers uses these cases of disputed attribution as a point of departure for her provocative discussion of the radical distinctiveness of Rembrandt's approach to painting. Alpers argues that Rembrandt exercised an unprecedentedly firm control over his art, his students, and the distribution of his works. Despite Gary Schwartz's brilliant documentation of Rembrandt's complicated relations with a wide circle of patrons, Alpers takes the view that Rembrandt refused to submit to the prevailing patronage system. He preferred, she claims, to sell his works on the open market and to play the entrepreneur. At a time when Dutch artists were organizing into professional brotherhoods and academies, Rembrandt stood apart. In fact, Alpers' portrait of Rembrandt shows virtually every aspect of his art pervaded by economic motives. Indeed, so complete was Rembrandt's involvement with the market, she argues, that he even presented himself as a commodity, viewing his studio's products as extensions of himself, sent out into the world to earn money. Alpers asserts that Rembrandt's enterprise is found not just in his paintings, but in his refusal to limit his enterprise to those paintings he actually painted. He marketed Rembrandt. Although there may be some truth in the view that Rembrandt was an entrepreneur who made some aesthetic decisions on the basis of what he knew the market wanted, Alpers' emphasis on economic factors sacrifices discussion of the aesthetic qualities that make Rembrandt's work unique. For example, Alpers asserts that Rembrandt deliberately left his works unfinished so as to get more money for their revision and completion. She implies that Rembrandt actually wished the Council of Amsterdam to refuse the great Claudius Civilis, which they had commissioned for their new town hall, and she argues that "he must have calculated that he would be able to get more money by retouching [the] painting." Certainly the picture is painted with very broad strokes but there is no evidence that it was deliberately left unfinished. The fact is that the look of a work like Claudius Civilis must also be understood as the consequence of Rembrandt's powerful and profound meditations on painting itself. Alpers makes no mention of the pictorial dialectic that can be discerned between, say, the lessons Rembrandt absorbed from the Haarlem school of painters and the styles of his native Leiden. The trouble is that while Rembrandt's artistic enterprise may indeed not be reducible to the works he himself painted, it is not reducible to marketing practices either.

199710_4-RC_1_3

In the third paragraph, the author of the passage discusses aesthetic influences on Rembrandt's work most probably in order to

It has recently been discovered that many attributions of paintings to the seventeenth-century Dutch artist Rembrandt may be false. The contested paintings are not minor works, whose removal from the Rembrandt corpus would leave it relatively unaffected: they are at its very center. In her recent book, Svetlana Alpers uses these cases of disputed attribution as a point of departure for her provocative discussion of the radical distinctiveness of Rembrandt's approach to painting. Alpers argues that Rembrandt exercised an unprecedentedly firm control over his art, his students, and the distribution of his works. Despite Gary Schwartz's brilliant documentation of Rembrandt's complicated relations with a wide circle of patrons, Alpers takes the view that Rembrandt refused to submit to the prevailing patronage system. He preferred, she claims, to sell his works on the open market and to play the entrepreneur. At a time when Dutch artists were organizing into professional brotherhoods and academies, Rembrandt stood apart. In fact, Alpers' portrait of Rembrandt shows virtually every aspect of his art pervaded by economic motives. Indeed, so complete was Rembrandt's involvement with the market, she argues, that he even presented himself as a commodity, viewing his studio's products as extensions of himself, sent out into the world to earn money. Alpers asserts that Rembrandt's enterprise is found not just in his paintings, but in his refusal to limit his enterprise to those paintings he actually painted. He marketed Rembrandt. Although there may be some truth in the view that Rembrandt was an entrepreneur who made some aesthetic decisions on the basis of what he knew the market wanted, Alpers' emphasis on economic factors sacrifices discussion of the aesthetic qualities that make Rembrandt's work unique. For example, Alpers asserts that Rembrandt deliberately left his works unfinished so as to get more money for their revision and completion. She implies that Rembrandt actually wished the Council of Amsterdam to refuse the great Claudius Civilis, which they had commissioned for their new town hall, and she argues that "he must have calculated that he would be able to get more money by retouching [the] painting." Certainly the picture is painted with very broad strokes but there is no evidence that it was deliberately left unfinished. The fact is that the look of a work like Claudius Civilis must also be understood as the consequence of Rembrandt's powerful and profound meditations on painting itself. Alpers makes no mention of the pictorial dialectic that can be discerned between, say, the lessons Rembrandt absorbed from the Haarlem school of painters and the styles of his native Leiden. The trouble is that while Rembrandt's artistic enterprise may indeed not be reducible to the works he himself painted, it is not reducible to marketing practices either.

199710_4-RC_1_4

Which one of the following, if true, would provide the most support for Alpers' argument about Claudius Civilis?

It has recently been discovered that many attributions of paintings to the seventeenth-century Dutch artist Rembrandt may be false. The contested paintings are not minor works, whose removal from the Rembrandt corpus would leave it relatively unaffected: they are at its very center. In her recent book, Svetlana Alpers uses these cases of disputed attribution as a point of departure for her provocative discussion of the radical distinctiveness of Rembrandt's approach to painting. Alpers argues that Rembrandt exercised an unprecedentedly firm control over his art, his students, and the distribution of his works. Despite Gary Schwartz's brilliant documentation of Rembrandt's complicated relations with a wide circle of patrons, Alpers takes the view that Rembrandt refused to submit to the prevailing patronage system. He preferred, she claims, to sell his works on the open market and to play the entrepreneur. At a time when Dutch artists were organizing into professional brotherhoods and academies, Rembrandt stood apart. In fact, Alpers' portrait of Rembrandt shows virtually every aspect of his art pervaded by economic motives. Indeed, so complete was Rembrandt's involvement with the market, she argues, that he even presented himself as a commodity, viewing his studio's products as extensions of himself, sent out into the world to earn money. Alpers asserts that Rembrandt's enterprise is found not just in his paintings, but in his refusal to limit his enterprise to those paintings he actually painted. He marketed Rembrandt. Although there may be some truth in the view that Rembrandt was an entrepreneur who made some aesthetic decisions on the basis of what he knew the market wanted, Alpers' emphasis on economic factors sacrifices discussion of the aesthetic qualities that make Rembrandt's work unique. For example, Alpers asserts that Rembrandt deliberately left his works unfinished so as to get more money for their revision and completion. She implies that Rembrandt actually wished the Council of Amsterdam to refuse the great Claudius Civilis, which they had commissioned for their new town hall, and she argues that "he must have calculated that he would be able to get more money by retouching [the] painting." Certainly the picture is painted with very broad strokes but there is no evidence that it was deliberately left unfinished. The fact is that the look of a work like Claudius Civilis must also be understood as the consequence of Rembrandt's powerful and profound meditations on painting itself. Alpers makes no mention of the pictorial dialectic that can be discerned between, say, the lessons Rembrandt absorbed from the Haarlem school of painters and the styles of his native Leiden. The trouble is that while Rembrandt's artistic enterprise may indeed not be reducible to the works he himself painted, it is not reducible to marketing practices either.

199710_4-RC_1_5

It can be inferred that the author of the passage and Alpers would be most likely to agree on which one of the following?

Medievalists usually distinguished medieval public law from private law: the former was concerned with government and military affairs and the latter with the family, social status, and land transactions. Examination of medieval women's lives shows this distinction to be overly simplistic. Although medieval women were legally excluded from roles thus categorized as public, such as soldier, justice, jury member, or professional administrative official, women's control of land—usually considered a private or domestic phenomenon—had important political implications in the feudal system of thirteenth-century England. Since land equaled wealth and wealth equaled power, certain women exercised influence by controlling land. Unlike unmarried women (who were legally subject to their guardians) or married women (who had no legal identity separate from their husbands), women who were widows had autonomy with respect to acquiring or disposing of certain property, suing in court, incurring liability for their own debts, and making wills. Although feudal lands were normally transferred through primogeniture (the eldest son inheriting all), when no sons survived, the surviving daughters inherited equal shares under what was known as partible inheritance. In addition to controlling any such land inherited from her parents and any bridal dowry— property a woman brought to the marriage from her own family—a widow was entitled to use of one-third of her late husband's lands. Called "dower" in England, this grant had greater legal importance under common law than did the bridal dowry; no marriage was legal unless the groom endowed the bride with this property at the wedding ceremony. In 1215 Magna Carta guaranteed a widow's right to claim her dower without paying a fine; this document also strengthened widows' ability to control land by prohibiting forced remarriage. After 1272 women could also benefit from jointure: the groom could agree to hold part or all of his lands jointly with the bride, so that if one spouse died, the other received these lands. Since many widows had inheritances as well as dowers, widows were frequently the financial heads of the family; even though legal theory assumed the maintenance of the principle of primogeniture, the amount of land the widow controlled could exceed that of her son or of other male heirs. Anyone who held feudal land exercised authority over the people attached to the land—knights, rental tenants, and peasants—and had to hire estate administrators, oversee accounts, receive rents, protect tenants from outside encroachment, punish tenants for not paying rents, appoint priests to local parishes, and act as guardians of tenants' children and executors of their wills. Many married women fulfilled these duties as deputies for husbands away at court or at war, but widows could act on their own behalf. Widows' legal independence is suggested by their frequent appearance in thirteenth-century English legal records. Moreover, the scope of their sway is indicated by the fact that some controlled not merely single estates, but multiple counties.

199710_4-RC_2_6

Which one of the following best expresses the main idea of the passage?

Medievalists usually distinguished medieval public law from private law: the former was concerned with government and military affairs and the latter with the family, social status, and land transactions. Examination of medieval women's lives shows this distinction to be overly simplistic. Although medieval women were legally excluded from roles thus categorized as public, such as soldier, justice, jury member, or professional administrative official, women's control of land—usually considered a private or domestic phenomenon—had important political implications in the feudal system of thirteenth-century England. Since land equaled wealth and wealth equaled power, certain women exercised influence by controlling land. Unlike unmarried women (who were legally subject to their guardians) or married women (who had no legal identity separate from their husbands), women who were widows had autonomy with respect to acquiring or disposing of certain property, suing in court, incurring liability for their own debts, and making wills. Although feudal lands were normally transferred through primogeniture (the eldest son inheriting all), when no sons survived, the surviving daughters inherited equal shares under what was known as partible inheritance. In addition to controlling any such land inherited from her parents and any bridal dowry— property a woman brought to the marriage from her own family—a widow was entitled to use of one-third of her late husband's lands. Called "dower" in England, this grant had greater legal importance under common law than did the bridal dowry; no marriage was legal unless the groom endowed the bride with this property at the wedding ceremony. In 1215 Magna Carta guaranteed a widow's right to claim her dower without paying a fine; this document also strengthened widows' ability to control land by prohibiting forced remarriage. After 1272 women could also benefit from jointure: the groom could agree to hold part or all of his lands jointly with the bride, so that if one spouse died, the other received these lands. Since many widows had inheritances as well as dowers, widows were frequently the financial heads of the family; even though legal theory assumed the maintenance of the principle of primogeniture, the amount of land the widow controlled could exceed that of her son or of other male heirs. Anyone who held feudal land exercised authority over the people attached to the land—knights, rental tenants, and peasants—and had to hire estate administrators, oversee accounts, receive rents, protect tenants from outside encroachment, punish tenants for not paying rents, appoint priests to local parishes, and act as guardians of tenants' children and executors of their wills. Many married women fulfilled these duties as deputies for husbands away at court or at war, but widows could act on their own behalf. Widows' legal independence is suggested by their frequent appearance in thirteenth-century English legal records. Moreover, the scope of their sway is indicated by the fact that some controlled not merely single estates, but multiple counties.

199710_4-RC_2_7

With which one of the following statements about the views held by the medievalists mentioned in line 1 would the author of the passage most probably agree?

Medievalists usually distinguished medieval public law from private law: the former was concerned with government and military affairs and the latter with the family, social status, and land transactions. Examination of medieval women's lives shows this distinction to be overly simplistic. Although medieval women were legally excluded from roles thus categorized as public, such as soldier, justice, jury member, or professional administrative official, women's control of land—usually considered a private or domestic phenomenon—had important political implications in the feudal system of thirteenth-century England. Since land equaled wealth and wealth equaled power, certain women exercised influence by controlling land. Unlike unmarried women (who were legally subject to their guardians) or married women (who had no legal identity separate from their husbands), women who were widows had autonomy with respect to acquiring or disposing of certain property, suing in court, incurring liability for their own debts, and making wills. Although feudal lands were normally transferred through primogeniture (the eldest son inheriting all), when no sons survived, the surviving daughters inherited equal shares under what was known as partible inheritance. In addition to controlling any such land inherited from her parents and any bridal dowry— property a woman brought to the marriage from her own family—a widow was entitled to use of one-third of her late husband's lands. Called "dower" in England, this grant had greater legal importance under common law than did the bridal dowry; no marriage was legal unless the groom endowed the bride with this property at the wedding ceremony. In 1215 Magna Carta guaranteed a widow's right to claim her dower without paying a fine; this document also strengthened widows' ability to control land by prohibiting forced remarriage. After 1272 women could also benefit from jointure: the groom could agree to hold part or all of his lands jointly with the bride, so that if one spouse died, the other received these lands. Since many widows had inheritances as well as dowers, widows were frequently the financial heads of the family; even though legal theory assumed the maintenance of the principle of primogeniture, the amount of land the widow controlled could exceed that of her son or of other male heirs. Anyone who held feudal land exercised authority over the people attached to the land—knights, rental tenants, and peasants—and had to hire estate administrators, oversee accounts, receive rents, protect tenants from outside encroachment, punish tenants for not paying rents, appoint priests to local parishes, and act as guardians of tenants' children and executors of their wills. Many married women fulfilled these duties as deputies for husbands away at court or at war, but widows could act on their own behalf. Widows' legal independence is suggested by their frequent appearance in thirteenth-century English legal records. Moreover, the scope of their sway is indicated by the fact that some controlled not merely single estates, but multiple counties.

199710_4-RC_2_8

Which one of the following most accurately expresses the meaning of the word "sway" as it is used in line 60 of the passage?

Medievalists usually distinguished medieval public law from private law: the former was concerned with government and military affairs and the latter with the family, social status, and land transactions. Examination of medieval women's lives shows this distinction to be overly simplistic. Although medieval women were legally excluded from roles thus categorized as public, such as soldier, justice, jury member, or professional administrative official, women's control of land—usually considered a private or domestic phenomenon—had important political implications in the feudal system of thirteenth-century England. Since land equaled wealth and wealth equaled power, certain women exercised influence by controlling land. Unlike unmarried women (who were legally subject to their guardians) or married women (who had no legal identity separate from their husbands), women who were widows had autonomy with respect to acquiring or disposing of certain property, suing in court, incurring liability for their own debts, and making wills. Although feudal lands were normally transferred through primogeniture (the eldest son inheriting all), when no sons survived, the surviving daughters inherited equal shares under what was known as partible inheritance. In addition to controlling any such land inherited from her parents and any bridal dowry— property a woman brought to the marriage from her own family—a widow was entitled to use of one-third of her late husband's lands. Called "dower" in England, this grant had greater legal importance under common law than did the bridal dowry; no marriage was legal unless the groom endowed the bride with this property at the wedding ceremony. In 1215 Magna Carta guaranteed a widow's right to claim her dower without paying a fine; this document also strengthened widows' ability to control land by prohibiting forced remarriage. After 1272 women could also benefit from jointure: the groom could agree to hold part or all of his lands jointly with the bride, so that if one spouse died, the other received these lands. Since many widows had inheritances as well as dowers, widows were frequently the financial heads of the family; even though legal theory assumed the maintenance of the principle of primogeniture, the amount of land the widow controlled could exceed that of her son or of other male heirs. Anyone who held feudal land exercised authority over the people attached to the land—knights, rental tenants, and peasants—and had to hire estate administrators, oversee accounts, receive rents, protect tenants from outside encroachment, punish tenants for not paying rents, appoint priests to local parishes, and act as guardians of tenants' children and executors of their wills. Many married women fulfilled these duties as deputies for husbands away at court or at war, but widows could act on their own behalf. Widows' legal independence is suggested by their frequent appearance in thirteenth-century English legal records. Moreover, the scope of their sway is indicated by the fact that some controlled not merely single estates, but multiple counties.

199710_4-RC_2_9

Which one of the following most accurately describes the function of the second paragraph of the passage?

Medievalists usually distinguished medieval public law from private law: the former was concerned with government and military affairs and the latter with the family, social status, and land transactions. Examination of medieval women's lives shows this distinction to be overly simplistic. Although medieval women were legally excluded from roles thus categorized as public, such as soldier, justice, jury member, or professional administrative official, women's control of land—usually considered a private or domestic phenomenon—had important political implications in the feudal system of thirteenth-century England. Since land equaled wealth and wealth equaled power, certain women exercised influence by controlling land. Unlike unmarried women (who were legally subject to their guardians) or married women (who had no legal identity separate from their husbands), women who were widows had autonomy with respect to acquiring or disposing of certain property, suing in court, incurring liability for their own debts, and making wills. Although feudal lands were normally transferred through primogeniture (the eldest son inheriting all), when no sons survived, the surviving daughters inherited equal shares under what was known as partible inheritance. In addition to controlling any such land inherited from her parents and any bridal dowry— property a woman brought to the marriage from her own family—a widow was entitled to use of one-third of her late husband's lands. Called "dower" in England, this grant had greater legal importance under common law than did the bridal dowry; no marriage was legal unless the groom endowed the bride with this property at the wedding ceremony. In 1215 Magna Carta guaranteed a widow's right to claim her dower without paying a fine; this document also strengthened widows' ability to control land by prohibiting forced remarriage. After 1272 women could also benefit from jointure: the groom could agree to hold part or all of his lands jointly with the bride, so that if one spouse died, the other received these lands. Since many widows had inheritances as well as dowers, widows were frequently the financial heads of the family; even though legal theory assumed the maintenance of the principle of primogeniture, the amount of land the widow controlled could exceed that of her son or of other male heirs. Anyone who held feudal land exercised authority over the people attached to the land—knights, rental tenants, and peasants—and had to hire estate administrators, oversee accounts, receive rents, protect tenants from outside encroachment, punish tenants for not paying rents, appoint priests to local parishes, and act as guardians of tenants' children and executors of their wills. Many married women fulfilled these duties as deputies for husbands away at court or at war, but widows could act on their own behalf. Widows' legal independence is suggested by their frequent appearance in thirteenth-century English legal records. Moreover, the scope of their sway is indicated by the fact that some controlled not merely single estates, but multiple counties.

199710_4-RC_2_10

According to information in the passage, a widow in early thirteenth-century England could control more land than did her eldest son if

Medievalists usually distinguished medieval public law from private law: the former was concerned with government and military affairs and the latter with the family, social status, and land transactions. Examination of medieval women's lives shows this distinction to be overly simplistic. Although medieval women were legally excluded from roles thus categorized as public, such as soldier, justice, jury member, or professional administrative official, women's control of land—usually considered a private or domestic phenomenon—had important political implications in the feudal system of thirteenth-century England. Since land equaled wealth and wealth equaled power, certain women exercised influence by controlling land. Unlike unmarried women (who were legally subject to their guardians) or married women (who had no legal identity separate from their husbands), women who were widows had autonomy with respect to acquiring or disposing of certain property, suing in court, incurring liability for their own debts, and making wills. Although feudal lands were normally transferred through primogeniture (the eldest son inheriting all), when no sons survived, the surviving daughters inherited equal shares under what was known as partible inheritance. In addition to controlling any such land inherited from her parents and any bridal dowry— property a woman brought to the marriage from her own family—a widow was entitled to use of one-third of her late husband's lands. Called "dower" in England, this grant had greater legal importance under common law than did the bridal dowry; no marriage was legal unless the groom endowed the bride with this property at the wedding ceremony. In 1215 Magna Carta guaranteed a widow's right to claim her dower without paying a fine; this document also strengthened widows' ability to control land by prohibiting forced remarriage. After 1272 women could also benefit from jointure: the groom could agree to hold part or all of his lands jointly with the bride, so that if one spouse died, the other received these lands. Since many widows had inheritances as well as dowers, widows were frequently the financial heads of the family; even though legal theory assumed the maintenance of the principle of primogeniture, the amount of land the widow controlled could exceed that of her son or of other male heirs. Anyone who held feudal land exercised authority over the people attached to the land—knights, rental tenants, and peasants—and had to hire estate administrators, oversee accounts, receive rents, protect tenants from outside encroachment, punish tenants for not paying rents, appoint priests to local parishes, and act as guardians of tenants' children and executors of their wills. Many married women fulfilled these duties as deputies for husbands away at court or at war, but widows could act on their own behalf. Widows' legal independence is suggested by their frequent appearance in thirteenth-century English legal records. Moreover, the scope of their sway is indicated by the fact that some controlled not merely single estates, but multiple counties.

199710_4-RC_2_11

Which one of the following is mentioned in the passage as a reason why a married woman might have fulfilled certain duties associated with holding feudal land in thirteenth-century England?

Medievalists usually distinguished medieval public law from private law: the former was concerned with government and military affairs and the latter with the family, social status, and land transactions. Examination of medieval women's lives shows this distinction to be overly simplistic. Although medieval women were legally excluded from roles thus categorized as public, such as soldier, justice, jury member, or professional administrative official, women's control of land—usually considered a private or domestic phenomenon—had important political implications in the feudal system of thirteenth-century England. Since land equaled wealth and wealth equaled power, certain women exercised influence by controlling land. Unlike unmarried women (who were legally subject to their guardians) or married women (who had no legal identity separate from their husbands), women who were widows had autonomy with respect to acquiring or disposing of certain property, suing in court, incurring liability for their own debts, and making wills. Although feudal lands were normally transferred through primogeniture (the eldest son inheriting all), when no sons survived, the surviving daughters inherited equal shares under what was known as partible inheritance. In addition to controlling any such land inherited from her parents and any bridal dowry— property a woman brought to the marriage from her own family—a widow was entitled to use of one-third of her late husband's lands. Called "dower" in England, this grant had greater legal importance under common law than did the bridal dowry; no marriage was legal unless the groom endowed the bride with this property at the wedding ceremony. In 1215 Magna Carta guaranteed a widow's right to claim her dower without paying a fine; this document also strengthened widows' ability to control land by prohibiting forced remarriage. After 1272 women could also benefit from jointure: the groom could agree to hold part or all of his lands jointly with the bride, so that if one spouse died, the other received these lands. Since many widows had inheritances as well as dowers, widows were frequently the financial heads of the family; even though legal theory assumed the maintenance of the principle of primogeniture, the amount of land the widow controlled could exceed that of her son or of other male heirs. Anyone who held feudal land exercised authority over the people attached to the land—knights, rental tenants, and peasants—and had to hire estate administrators, oversee accounts, receive rents, protect tenants from outside encroachment, punish tenants for not paying rents, appoint priests to local parishes, and act as guardians of tenants' children and executors of their wills. Many married women fulfilled these duties as deputies for husbands away at court or at war, but widows could act on their own behalf. Widows' legal independence is suggested by their frequent appearance in thirteenth-century English legal records. Moreover, the scope of their sway is indicated by the fact that some controlled not merely single estates, but multiple counties.

199710_4-RC_2_12

The phrase "in England" (lines 30–31)does which one of the following?

Medievalists usually distinguished medieval public law from private law: the former was concerned with government and military affairs and the latter with the family, social status, and land transactions. Examination of medieval women's lives shows this distinction to be overly simplistic. Although medieval women were legally excluded from roles thus categorized as public, such as soldier, justice, jury member, or professional administrative official, women's control of land—usually considered a private or domestic phenomenon—had important political implications in the feudal system of thirteenth-century England. Since land equaled wealth and wealth equaled power, certain women exercised influence by controlling land. Unlike unmarried women (who were legally subject to their guardians) or married women (who had no legal identity separate from their husbands), women who were widows had autonomy with respect to acquiring or disposing of certain property, suing in court, incurring liability for their own debts, and making wills. Although feudal lands were normally transferred through primogeniture (the eldest son inheriting all), when no sons survived, the surviving daughters inherited equal shares under what was known as partible inheritance. In addition to controlling any such land inherited from her parents and any bridal dowry— property a woman brought to the marriage from her own family—a widow was entitled to use of one-third of her late husband's lands. Called "dower" in England, this grant had greater legal importance under common law than did the bridal dowry; no marriage was legal unless the groom endowed the bride with this property at the wedding ceremony. In 1215 Magna Carta guaranteed a widow's right to claim her dower without paying a fine; this document also strengthened widows' ability to control land by prohibiting forced remarriage. After 1272 women could also benefit from jointure: the groom could agree to hold part or all of his lands jointly with the bride, so that if one spouse died, the other received these lands. Since many widows had inheritances as well as dowers, widows were frequently the financial heads of the family; even though legal theory assumed the maintenance of the principle of primogeniture, the amount of land the widow controlled could exceed that of her son or of other male heirs. Anyone who held feudal land exercised authority over the people attached to the land—knights, rental tenants, and peasants—and had to hire estate administrators, oversee accounts, receive rents, protect tenants from outside encroachment, punish tenants for not paying rents, appoint priests to local parishes, and act as guardians of tenants' children and executors of their wills. Many married women fulfilled these duties as deputies for husbands away at court or at war, but widows could act on their own behalf. Widows' legal independence is suggested by their frequent appearance in thirteenth-century English legal records. Moreover, the scope of their sway is indicated by the fact that some controlled not merely single estates, but multiple counties.

199710_4-RC_2_13

The primary purpose of the passage is to

The debate over the environmental crisis is not new; anxiety about industry's impact on the environment has existed for over a century. What is new is the extreme polarization of views. Mounting evidence of humanity's capacity to damage the environment irreversibly coupled with suspicions that government, industry, and even science might be impotent to prevent environmental destruction have provoked accusatory polemics on the part of environmentalists. In turn, these polemics have elicited a corresponding backlash from industry. The sad effect of this polarization is that it is now even more difficult for industry than it was a hundred years ago to respond appropriately to impact analyses that demand action. Unlike today's adversaries, earlier ecological reformers shared with advocates of industrial growth a confidence in timely corrective action. George P. Marsh's pioneering conservation tract Man and Nature (1864) elicited wide acclaim without embittered denials. Man and Nature castigated Earth's despoilers for heedless greed, declaring that humanity "has brought the face of the Earth to a desolation almost as complete as that of the Moon." But no entrepreneur or industrialist sought to refute Marsh's accusation, to defend the gutting of forests or the slaughter of wildlife as economically essential, or to dismiss his ecological warnings as hysterical. To the contrary, they generally agreed with him. Why? Marsh and his followers took environmental improvement and economic progress as givens; they disputed not the desirability of conquering nature but the bungling way in which the conquest was carried out. Blame was not personalized; Marsh denounced general greed rather than particular entrepreneurs, and the media did not hound malefactors. Further, corrective measures seemed to entail no sacrifice, to demand no draconian remedies. Self-interest underwrote most prescribed reforms. Marsh's emphasis on future stewardship was then a widely accepted ideal (if not practice). His ecological admonitions were in keeping with the Enlightenment premise that humanity's mission was to subdue and transform nature. Not until the 1960s did a gloomier perspective gain popular ground. Frederic Clements' equilibrium model of ecology, developed in the 1930s seemed consistent with mounting environmental disasters. In this view, nature was most fruitful when least altered. Left undisturbed, flora and fauna gradually attained maximum diversity and stability. Despoliation thwarted the culmination or shortened the duration of this beneficent climax; technology did not improve nature but destroyed it. The equilibrium model became an ecological mystique: environmental interference was now taboo, wilderness adored. Nature as unfinished fabric perfected by human ingenuity gave way to the image of nature debased and endangered by technology. In contrast to the Enlightenment vision of nature, according to which rational managers construct an ever more improved environment, twentieth-century reformers' vision of nature calls for a reduction of human interference in order to restore environmental stability.

199710_4-RC_3_14

Which one of the following most accurately states the main idea of the passage?

The debate over the environmental crisis is not new; anxiety about industry's impact on the environment has existed for over a century. What is new is the extreme polarization of views. Mounting evidence of humanity's capacity to damage the environment irreversibly coupled with suspicions that government, industry, and even science might be impotent to prevent environmental destruction have provoked accusatory polemics on the part of environmentalists. In turn, these polemics have elicited a corresponding backlash from industry. The sad effect of this polarization is that it is now even more difficult for industry than it was a hundred years ago to respond appropriately to impact analyses that demand action. Unlike today's adversaries, earlier ecological reformers shared with advocates of industrial growth a confidence in timely corrective action. George P. Marsh's pioneering conservation tract Man and Nature (1864) elicited wide acclaim without embittered denials. Man and Nature castigated Earth's despoilers for heedless greed, declaring that humanity "has brought the face of the Earth to a desolation almost as complete as that of the Moon." But no entrepreneur or industrialist sought to refute Marsh's accusation, to defend the gutting of forests or the slaughter of wildlife as economically essential, or to dismiss his ecological warnings as hysterical. To the contrary, they generally agreed with him. Why? Marsh and his followers took environmental improvement and economic progress as givens; they disputed not the desirability of conquering nature but the bungling way in which the conquest was carried out. Blame was not personalized; Marsh denounced general greed rather than particular entrepreneurs, and the media did not hound malefactors. Further, corrective measures seemed to entail no sacrifice, to demand no draconian remedies. Self-interest underwrote most prescribed reforms. Marsh's emphasis on future stewardship was then a widely accepted ideal (if not practice). His ecological admonitions were in keeping with the Enlightenment premise that humanity's mission was to subdue and transform nature. Not until the 1960s did a gloomier perspective gain popular ground. Frederic Clements' equilibrium model of ecology, developed in the 1930s seemed consistent with mounting environmental disasters. In this view, nature was most fruitful when least altered. Left undisturbed, flora and fauna gradually attained maximum diversity and stability. Despoliation thwarted the culmination or shortened the duration of this beneficent climax; technology did not improve nature but destroyed it. The equilibrium model became an ecological mystique: environmental interference was now taboo, wilderness adored. Nature as unfinished fabric perfected by human ingenuity gave way to the image of nature debased and endangered by technology. In contrast to the Enlightenment vision of nature, according to which rational managers construct an ever more improved environment, twentieth-century reformers' vision of nature calls for a reduction of human interference in order to restore environmental stability.

199710_4-RC_3_15

The author refers to the equilibrium model of ecology as an "ecological mystique" (lines 54–55) most likely in order to do which one of the following?

The debate over the environmental crisis is not new; anxiety about industry's impact on the environment has existed for over a century. What is new is the extreme polarization of views. Mounting evidence of humanity's capacity to damage the environment irreversibly coupled with suspicions that government, industry, and even science might be impotent to prevent environmental destruction have provoked accusatory polemics on the part of environmentalists. In turn, these polemics have elicited a corresponding backlash from industry. The sad effect of this polarization is that it is now even more difficult for industry than it was a hundred years ago to respond appropriately to impact analyses that demand action. Unlike today's adversaries, earlier ecological reformers shared with advocates of industrial growth a confidence in timely corrective action. George P. Marsh's pioneering conservation tract Man and Nature (1864) elicited wide acclaim without embittered denials. Man and Nature castigated Earth's despoilers for heedless greed, declaring that humanity "has brought the face of the Earth to a desolation almost as complete as that of the Moon." But no entrepreneur or industrialist sought to refute Marsh's accusation, to defend the gutting of forests or the slaughter of wildlife as economically essential, or to dismiss his ecological warnings as hysterical. To the contrary, they generally agreed with him. Why? Marsh and his followers took environmental improvement and economic progress as givens; they disputed not the desirability of conquering nature but the bungling way in which the conquest was carried out. Blame was not personalized; Marsh denounced general greed rather than particular entrepreneurs, and the media did not hound malefactors. Further, corrective measures seemed to entail no sacrifice, to demand no draconian remedies. Self-interest underwrote most prescribed reforms. Marsh's emphasis on future stewardship was then a widely accepted ideal (if not practice). His ecological admonitions were in keeping with the Enlightenment premise that humanity's mission was to subdue and transform nature. Not until the 1960s did a gloomier perspective gain popular ground. Frederic Clements' equilibrium model of ecology, developed in the 1930s seemed consistent with mounting environmental disasters. In this view, nature was most fruitful when least altered. Left undisturbed, flora and fauna gradually attained maximum diversity and stability. Despoliation thwarted the culmination or shortened the duration of this beneficent climax; technology did not improve nature but destroyed it. The equilibrium model became an ecological mystique: environmental interference was now taboo, wilderness adored. Nature as unfinished fabric perfected by human ingenuity gave way to the image of nature debased and endangered by technology. In contrast to the Enlightenment vision of nature, according to which rational managers construct an ever more improved environment, twentieth-century reformers' vision of nature calls for a reduction of human interference in order to restore environmental stability.

199710_4-RC_3_16

Which one of the following practices is most clearly an application of Frederic Clements' equilibrium model of ecology?

The debate over the environmental crisis is not new; anxiety about industry's impact on the environment has existed for over a century. What is new is the extreme polarization of views. Mounting evidence of humanity's capacity to damage the environment irreversibly coupled with suspicions that government, industry, and even science might be impotent to prevent environmental destruction have provoked accusatory polemics on the part of environmentalists. In turn, these polemics have elicited a corresponding backlash from industry. The sad effect of this polarization is that it is now even more difficult for industry than it was a hundred years ago to respond appropriately to impact analyses that demand action. Unlike today's adversaries, earlier ecological reformers shared with advocates of industrial growth a confidence in timely corrective action. George P. Marsh's pioneering conservation tract Man and Nature (1864) elicited wide acclaim without embittered denials. Man and Nature castigated Earth's despoilers for heedless greed, declaring that humanity "has brought the face of the Earth to a desolation almost as complete as that of the Moon." But no entrepreneur or industrialist sought to refute Marsh's accusation, to defend the gutting of forests or the slaughter of wildlife as economically essential, or to dismiss his ecological warnings as hysterical. To the contrary, they generally agreed with him. Why? Marsh and his followers took environmental improvement and economic progress as givens; they disputed not the desirability of conquering nature but the bungling way in which the conquest was carried out. Blame was not personalized; Marsh denounced general greed rather than particular entrepreneurs, and the media did not hound malefactors. Further, corrective measures seemed to entail no sacrifice, to demand no draconian remedies. Self-interest underwrote most prescribed reforms. Marsh's emphasis on future stewardship was then a widely accepted ideal (if not practice). His ecological admonitions were in keeping with the Enlightenment premise that humanity's mission was to subdue and transform nature. Not until the 1960s did a gloomier perspective gain popular ground. Frederic Clements' equilibrium model of ecology, developed in the 1930s seemed consistent with mounting environmental disasters. In this view, nature was most fruitful when least altered. Left undisturbed, flora and fauna gradually attained maximum diversity and stability. Despoliation thwarted the culmination or shortened the duration of this beneficent climax; technology did not improve nature but destroyed it. The equilibrium model became an ecological mystique: environmental interference was now taboo, wilderness adored. Nature as unfinished fabric perfected by human ingenuity gave way to the image of nature debased and endangered by technology. In contrast to the Enlightenment vision of nature, according to which rational managers construct an ever more improved environment, twentieth-century reformers' vision of nature calls for a reduction of human interference in order to restore environmental stability.

199710_4-RC_3_17

The passage suggests that George P. Marsh and today's ecological reformers would be most likely to agree with which one of the following statements?

The debate over the environmental crisis is not new; anxiety about industry's impact on the environment has existed for over a century. What is new is the extreme polarization of views. Mounting evidence of humanity's capacity to damage the environment irreversibly coupled with suspicions that government, industry, and even science might be impotent to prevent environmental destruction have provoked accusatory polemics on the part of environmentalists. In turn, these polemics have elicited a corresponding backlash from industry. The sad effect of this polarization is that it is now even more difficult for industry than it was a hundred years ago to respond appropriately to impact analyses that demand action. Unlike today's adversaries, earlier ecological reformers shared with advocates of industrial growth a confidence in timely corrective action. George P. Marsh's pioneering conservation tract Man and Nature (1864) elicited wide acclaim without embittered denials. Man and Nature castigated Earth's despoilers for heedless greed, declaring that humanity "has brought the face of the Earth to a desolation almost as complete as that of the Moon." But no entrepreneur or industrialist sought to refute Marsh's accusation, to defend the gutting of forests or the slaughter of wildlife as economically essential, or to dismiss his ecological warnings as hysterical. To the contrary, they generally agreed with him. Why? Marsh and his followers took environmental improvement and economic progress as givens; they disputed not the desirability of conquering nature but the bungling way in which the conquest was carried out. Blame was not personalized; Marsh denounced general greed rather than particular entrepreneurs, and the media did not hound malefactors. Further, corrective measures seemed to entail no sacrifice, to demand no draconian remedies. Self-interest underwrote most prescribed reforms. Marsh's emphasis on future stewardship was then a widely accepted ideal (if not practice). His ecological admonitions were in keeping with the Enlightenment premise that humanity's mission was to subdue and transform nature. Not until the 1960s did a gloomier perspective gain popular ground. Frederic Clements' equilibrium model of ecology, developed in the 1930s seemed consistent with mounting environmental disasters. In this view, nature was most fruitful when least altered. Left undisturbed, flora and fauna gradually attained maximum diversity and stability. Despoliation thwarted the culmination or shortened the duration of this beneficent climax; technology did not improve nature but destroyed it. The equilibrium model became an ecological mystique: environmental interference was now taboo, wilderness adored. Nature as unfinished fabric perfected by human ingenuity gave way to the image of nature debased and endangered by technology. In contrast to the Enlightenment vision of nature, according to which rational managers construct an ever more improved environment, twentieth-century reformers' vision of nature calls for a reduction of human interference in order to restore environmental stability.

199710_4-RC_3_18

The passage is primarily concerned with which one of the following?

Recently the focus of historical studies of different ethnic groups in the United States has shifted from the transformation of ethnic identity to its preservation. Whereas earlier historians argued that the ethnic identity of various immigrant groups to the United States blended to form an American national character, the new scholarship has focused on the transplantation of ethnic cultures to the United States. Fugita and O'Brien's Japanese American Ethnicity provides an example of this recent trend; it also exemplifies a problem that is common to such scholarship. In comparing the first three generations of Japanese Americans (the Issei, Nisei, and Sansei), Fugita and O'Brien conclude that assimilation to United States culture increased among Japanese Americans over three generations, but that a sense of ethnic community endured. Although the persistence of community is stressed by the authors, their emphasis in the book could just as easily have been on the high degree of assimilation of the Japanese American population in the late twentieth century, which Fugita and O'Brien believe is demonstrated by the high levels of education, income, and occupational mobility achieved by Japanese Americans. In addition, their data reveal that the character of the ethnic community itself changed: the integration of Sanseis into new professional communities and nonethnic voluntary associations meant at the very least that ethnic ties had to accommodate multiple and layered identities. Fugita and O'Brien themselves acknowledge that there has been a "weakening of Japanese American ethnic community life." Because of the social changes weakening the bonds of community, Fugita and O'Brien maintain that the community cohesion of Japanese Americans is notable not for its initial intensity but because "there remains a degree of involvement in the ethnic community surpassing that found in most other ethnic groups at similar points in their ethnic group life cycle." This comparative difference is important to Fugita and O'Brien, and they hypothesize that the Japanese American community persisted in the face of assimilation because of a particularly strong preexisting sense of "peoplehood." They argue that this sense of peoplehood extended beyond local and family ties. Fugita and O'Brien's hypothesis illustrates a common problem in studies that investigate the history of ethnic community. Like historians who have studied European ethnic cultures in the United States, Fugita and O'Brien have explained persistence of ethnic community by citing a preexisting sense of national consciousness that is independent of how a group adapts to United States culture. However, it is difficult to prove, as Fugita and O'Brien have attempted to do, that a sense of peoplehood is a distinct phenomenon. Historians should instead attempt to identify directly the factors that sustain community cohesion in generations that have adapted to United States culture and been exposed to the pluralism of American life.

199710_4-RC_4_19

Which one of the following best summarizes the main point of the author of the passage?

Recently the focus of historical studies of different ethnic groups in the United States has shifted from the transformation of ethnic identity to its preservation. Whereas earlier historians argued that the ethnic identity of various immigrant groups to the United States blended to form an American national character, the new scholarship has focused on the transplantation of ethnic cultures to the United States. Fugita and O'Brien's Japanese American Ethnicity provides an example of this recent trend; it also exemplifies a problem that is common to such scholarship. In comparing the first three generations of Japanese Americans (the Issei, Nisei, and Sansei), Fugita and O'Brien conclude that assimilation to United States culture increased among Japanese Americans over three generations, but that a sense of ethnic community endured. Although the persistence of community is stressed by the authors, their emphasis in the book could just as easily have been on the high degree of assimilation of the Japanese American population in the late twentieth century, which Fugita and O'Brien believe is demonstrated by the high levels of education, income, and occupational mobility achieved by Japanese Americans. In addition, their data reveal that the character of the ethnic community itself changed: the integration of Sanseis into new professional communities and nonethnic voluntary associations meant at the very least that ethnic ties had to accommodate multiple and layered identities. Fugita and O'Brien themselves acknowledge that there has been a "weakening of Japanese American ethnic community life." Because of the social changes weakening the bonds of community, Fugita and O'Brien maintain that the community cohesion of Japanese Americans is notable not for its initial intensity but because "there remains a degree of involvement in the ethnic community surpassing that found in most other ethnic groups at similar points in their ethnic group life cycle." This comparative difference is important to Fugita and O'Brien, and they hypothesize that the Japanese American community persisted in the face of assimilation because of a particularly strong preexisting sense of "peoplehood." They argue that this sense of peoplehood extended beyond local and family ties. Fugita and O'Brien's hypothesis illustrates a common problem in studies that investigate the history of ethnic community. Like historians who have studied European ethnic cultures in the United States, Fugita and O'Brien have explained persistence of ethnic community by citing a preexisting sense of national consciousness that is independent of how a group adapts to United States culture. However, it is difficult to prove, as Fugita and O'Brien have attempted to do, that a sense of peoplehood is a distinct phenomenon. Historians should instead attempt to identify directly the factors that sustain community cohesion in generations that have adapted to United States culture and been exposed to the pluralism of American life.

199710_4-RC_4_20

According to the passage, Fugita and O'Brien's data indicate which one of the following about the Japanese American ethnic community?

Recently the focus of historical studies of different ethnic groups in the United States has shifted from the transformation of ethnic identity to its preservation. Whereas earlier historians argued that the ethnic identity of various immigrant groups to the United States blended to form an American national character, the new scholarship has focused on the transplantation of ethnic cultures to the United States. Fugita and O'Brien's Japanese American Ethnicity provides an example of this recent trend; it also exemplifies a problem that is common to such scholarship. In comparing the first three generations of Japanese Americans (the Issei, Nisei, and Sansei), Fugita and O'Brien conclude that assimilation to United States culture increased among Japanese Americans over three generations, but that a sense of ethnic community endured. Although the persistence of community is stressed by the authors, their emphasis in the book could just as easily have been on the high degree of assimilation of the Japanese American population in the late twentieth century, which Fugita and O'Brien believe is demonstrated by the high levels of education, income, and occupational mobility achieved by Japanese Americans. In addition, their data reveal that the character of the ethnic community itself changed: the integration of Sanseis into new professional communities and nonethnic voluntary associations meant at the very least that ethnic ties had to accommodate multiple and layered identities. Fugita and O'Brien themselves acknowledge that there has been a "weakening of Japanese American ethnic community life." Because of the social changes weakening the bonds of community, Fugita and O'Brien maintain that the community cohesion of Japanese Americans is notable not for its initial intensity but because "there remains a degree of involvement in the ethnic community surpassing that found in most other ethnic groups at similar points in their ethnic group life cycle." This comparative difference is important to Fugita and O'Brien, and they hypothesize that the Japanese American community persisted in the face of assimilation because of a particularly strong preexisting sense of "peoplehood." They argue that this sense of peoplehood extended beyond local and family ties. Fugita and O'Brien's hypothesis illustrates a common problem in studies that investigate the history of ethnic community. Like historians who have studied European ethnic cultures in the United States, Fugita and O'Brien have explained persistence of ethnic community by citing a preexisting sense of national consciousness that is independent of how a group adapts to United States culture. However, it is difficult to prove, as Fugita and O'Brien have attempted to do, that a sense of peoplehood is a distinct phenomenon. Historians should instead attempt to identify directly the factors that sustain community cohesion in generations that have adapted to United States culture and been exposed to the pluralism of American life.

199710_4-RC_4_21

Which one of the following provides an example of a research study that has a conclusion most analogous to that argued for by the historians mentioned in line 4?

Recently the focus of historical studies of different ethnic groups in the United States has shifted from the transformation of ethnic identity to its preservation. Whereas earlier historians argued that the ethnic identity of various immigrant groups to the United States blended to form an American national character, the new scholarship has focused on the transplantation of ethnic cultures to the United States. Fugita and O'Brien's Japanese American Ethnicity provides an example of this recent trend; it also exemplifies a problem that is common to such scholarship. In comparing the first three generations of Japanese Americans (the Issei, Nisei, and Sansei), Fugita and O'Brien conclude that assimilation to United States culture increased among Japanese Americans over three generations, but that a sense of ethnic community endured. Although the persistence of community is stressed by the authors, their emphasis in the book could just as easily have been on the high degree of assimilation of the Japanese American population in the late twentieth century, which Fugita and O'Brien believe is demonstrated by the high levels of education, income, and occupational mobility achieved by Japanese Americans. In addition, their data reveal that the character of the ethnic community itself changed: the integration of Sanseis into new professional communities and nonethnic voluntary associations meant at the very least that ethnic ties had to accommodate multiple and layered identities. Fugita and O'Brien themselves acknowledge that there has been a "weakening of Japanese American ethnic community life." Because of the social changes weakening the bonds of community, Fugita and O'Brien maintain that the community cohesion of Japanese Americans is notable not for its initial intensity but because "there remains a degree of involvement in the ethnic community surpassing that found in most other ethnic groups at similar points in their ethnic group life cycle." This comparative difference is important to Fugita and O'Brien, and they hypothesize that the Japanese American community persisted in the face of assimilation because of a particularly strong preexisting sense of "peoplehood." They argue that this sense of peoplehood extended beyond local and family ties. Fugita and O'Brien's hypothesis illustrates a common problem in studies that investigate the history of ethnic community. Like historians who have studied European ethnic cultures in the United States, Fugita and O'Brien have explained persistence of ethnic community by citing a preexisting sense of national consciousness that is independent of how a group adapts to United States culture. However, it is difficult to prove, as Fugita and O'Brien have attempted to do, that a sense of peoplehood is a distinct phenomenon. Historians should instead attempt to identify directly the factors that sustain community cohesion in generations that have adapted to United States culture and been exposed to the pluralism of American life.

199710_4-RC_4_22

According to the passage, which one of the following is true about the focus of historical studies on ethnic groups in the United States?

Recently the focus of historical studies of different ethnic groups in the United States has shifted from the transformation of ethnic identity to its preservation. Whereas earlier historians argued that the ethnic identity of various immigrant groups to the United States blended to form an American national character, the new scholarship has focused on the transplantation of ethnic cultures to the United States. Fugita and O'Brien's Japanese American Ethnicity provides an example of this recent trend; it also exemplifies a problem that is common to such scholarship. In comparing the first three generations of Japanese Americans (the Issei, Nisei, and Sansei), Fugita and O'Brien conclude that assimilation to United States culture increased among Japanese Americans over three generations, but that a sense of ethnic community endured. Although the persistence of community is stressed by the authors, their emphasis in the book could just as easily have been on the high degree of assimilation of the Japanese American population in the late twentieth century, which Fugita and O'Brien believe is demonstrated by the high levels of education, income, and occupational mobility achieved by Japanese Americans. In addition, their data reveal that the character of the ethnic community itself changed: the integration of Sanseis into new professional communities and nonethnic voluntary associations meant at the very least that ethnic ties had to accommodate multiple and layered identities. Fugita and O'Brien themselves acknowledge that there has been a "weakening of Japanese American ethnic community life." Because of the social changes weakening the bonds of community, Fugita and O'Brien maintain that the community cohesion of Japanese Americans is notable not for its initial intensity but because "there remains a degree of involvement in the ethnic community surpassing that found in most other ethnic groups at similar points in their ethnic group life cycle." This comparative difference is important to Fugita and O'Brien, and they hypothesize that the Japanese American community persisted in the face of assimilation because of a particularly strong preexisting sense of "peoplehood." They argue that this sense of peoplehood extended beyond local and family ties. Fugita and O'Brien's hypothesis illustrates a common problem in studies that investigate the history of ethnic community. Like historians who have studied European ethnic cultures in the United States, Fugita and O'Brien have explained persistence of ethnic community by citing a preexisting sense of national consciousness that is independent of how a group adapts to United States culture. However, it is difficult to prove, as Fugita and O'Brien have attempted to do, that a sense of peoplehood is a distinct phenomenon. Historians should instead attempt to identify directly the factors that sustain community cohesion in generations that have adapted to United States culture and been exposed to the pluralism of American life.

199710_4-RC_4_23

The author of the passage quotes Fugita and O'Brien in lines 36–39 most probably in order to

Recently the focus of historical studies of different ethnic groups in the United States has shifted from the transformation of ethnic identity to its preservation. Whereas earlier historians argued that the ethnic identity of various immigrant groups to the United States blended to form an American national character, the new scholarship has focused on the transplantation of ethnic cultures to the United States. Fugita and O'Brien's Japanese American Ethnicity provides an example of this recent trend; it also exemplifies a problem that is common to such scholarship. In comparing the first three generations of Japanese Americans (the Issei, Nisei, and Sansei), Fugita and O'Brien conclude that assimilation to United States culture increased among Japanese Americans over three generations, but that a sense of ethnic community endured. Although the persistence of community is stressed by the authors, their emphasis in the book could just as easily have been on the high degree of assimilation of the Japanese American population in the late twentieth century, which Fugita and O'Brien believe is demonstrated by the high levels of education, income, and occupational mobility achieved by Japanese Americans. In addition, their data reveal that the character of the ethnic community itself changed: the integration of Sanseis into new professional communities and nonethnic voluntary associations meant at the very least that ethnic ties had to accommodate multiple and layered identities. Fugita and O'Brien themselves acknowledge that there has been a "weakening of Japanese American ethnic community life." Because of the social changes weakening the bonds of community, Fugita and O'Brien maintain that the community cohesion of Japanese Americans is notable not for its initial intensity but because "there remains a degree of involvement in the ethnic community surpassing that found in most other ethnic groups at similar points in their ethnic group life cycle." This comparative difference is important to Fugita and O'Brien, and they hypothesize that the Japanese American community persisted in the face of assimilation because of a particularly strong preexisting sense of "peoplehood." They argue that this sense of peoplehood extended beyond local and family ties. Fugita and O'Brien's hypothesis illustrates a common problem in studies that investigate the history of ethnic community. Like historians who have studied European ethnic cultures in the United States, Fugita and O'Brien have explained persistence of ethnic community by citing a preexisting sense of national consciousness that is independent of how a group adapts to United States culture. However, it is difficult to prove, as Fugita and O'Brien have attempted to do, that a sense of peoplehood is a distinct phenomenon. Historians should instead attempt to identify directly the factors that sustain community cohesion in generations that have adapted to United States culture and been exposed to the pluralism of American life.

199710_4-RC_4_24

The passage suggests that the author would be most likely to describe the hypothesis mentioned in line 47 as

Recently the focus of historical studies of different ethnic groups in the United States has shifted from the transformation of ethnic identity to its preservation. Whereas earlier historians argued that the ethnic identity of various immigrant groups to the United States blended to form an American national character, the new scholarship has focused on the transplantation of ethnic cultures to the United States. Fugita and O'Brien's Japanese American Ethnicity provides an example of this recent trend; it also exemplifies a problem that is common to such scholarship. In comparing the first three generations of Japanese Americans (the Issei, Nisei, and Sansei), Fugita and O'Brien conclude that assimilation to United States culture increased among Japanese Americans over three generations, but that a sense of ethnic community endured. Although the persistence of community is stressed by the authors, their emphasis in the book could just as easily have been on the high degree of assimilation of the Japanese American population in the late twentieth century, which Fugita and O'Brien believe is demonstrated by the high levels of education, income, and occupational mobility achieved by Japanese Americans. In addition, their data reveal that the character of the ethnic community itself changed: the integration of Sanseis into new professional communities and nonethnic voluntary associations meant at the very least that ethnic ties had to accommodate multiple and layered identities. Fugita and O'Brien themselves acknowledge that there has been a "weakening of Japanese American ethnic community life." Because of the social changes weakening the bonds of community, Fugita and O'Brien maintain that the community cohesion of Japanese Americans is notable not for its initial intensity but because "there remains a degree of involvement in the ethnic community surpassing that found in most other ethnic groups at similar points in their ethnic group life cycle." This comparative difference is important to Fugita and O'Brien, and they hypothesize that the Japanese American community persisted in the face of assimilation because of a particularly strong preexisting sense of "peoplehood." They argue that this sense of peoplehood extended beyond local and family ties. Fugita and O'Brien's hypothesis illustrates a common problem in studies that investigate the history of ethnic community. Like historians who have studied European ethnic cultures in the United States, Fugita and O'Brien have explained persistence of ethnic community by citing a preexisting sense of national consciousness that is independent of how a group adapts to United States culture. However, it is difficult to prove, as Fugita and O'Brien have attempted to do, that a sense of peoplehood is a distinct phenomenon. Historians should instead attempt to identify directly the factors that sustain community cohesion in generations that have adapted to United States culture and been exposed to the pluralism of American life.

199710_4-RC_4_25

The passage suggests which one of the following about the historians mentioned in line 49?

Recently the focus of historical studies of different ethnic groups in the United States has shifted from the transformation of ethnic identity to its preservation. Whereas earlier historians argued that the ethnic identity of various immigrant groups to the United States blended to form an American national character, the new scholarship has focused on the transplantation of ethnic cultures to the United States. Fugita and O'Brien's Japanese American Ethnicity provides an example of this recent trend; it also exemplifies a problem that is common to such scholarship. In comparing the first three generations of Japanese Americans (the Issei, Nisei, and Sansei), Fugita and O'Brien conclude that assimilation to United States culture increased among Japanese Americans over three generations, but that a sense of ethnic community endured. Although the persistence of community is stressed by the authors, their emphasis in the book could just as easily have been on the high degree of assimilation of the Japanese American population in the late twentieth century, which Fugita and O'Brien believe is demonstrated by the high levels of education, income, and occupational mobility achieved by Japanese Americans. In addition, their data reveal that the character of the ethnic community itself changed: the integration of Sanseis into new professional communities and nonethnic voluntary associations meant at the very least that ethnic ties had to accommodate multiple and layered identities. Fugita and O'Brien themselves acknowledge that there has been a "weakening of Japanese American ethnic community life." Because of the social changes weakening the bonds of community, Fugita and O'Brien maintain that the community cohesion of Japanese Americans is notable not for its initial intensity but because "there remains a degree of involvement in the ethnic community surpassing that found in most other ethnic groups at similar points in their ethnic group life cycle." This comparative difference is important to Fugita and O'Brien, and they hypothesize that the Japanese American community persisted in the face of assimilation because of a particularly strong preexisting sense of "peoplehood." They argue that this sense of peoplehood extended beyond local and family ties. Fugita and O'Brien's hypothesis illustrates a common problem in studies that investigate the history of ethnic community. Like historians who have studied European ethnic cultures in the United States, Fugita and O'Brien have explained persistence of ethnic community by citing a preexisting sense of national consciousness that is independent of how a group adapts to United States culture. However, it is difficult to prove, as Fugita and O'Brien have attempted to do, that a sense of peoplehood is a distinct phenomenon. Historians should instead attempt to identify directly the factors that sustain community cohesion in generations that have adapted to United States culture and been exposed to the pluralism of American life.

199710_4-RC_4_26

As their views are discussed in the passage, Fugita and O'Brien would be most likely to agree with which one of the following?

To many developers of technologies that affect public health or the environment, "risk communication" means persuading the public that the potential risks of such technologies are small and should be ignored. Those who communicate risks in this way seem to believe that lay people do not understand the actual nature of technological risk, and they can cite studies asserting that, although people apparently ignore mundane hazards that pose significant danger, they get upset about exotic hazards that pose little chance of death or injury. Because some risk communicators take this persuasive stance, many lay people see "risk communication" as a euphemism for brainwashing done by experts. Since, however, the goal of risk communication should be to enable people to make informed decisions about technological risks, a clear understanding about how the public perceives risk is needed. Lay people's definitions of "risk" are more likely to reflect subjective ethical concerns than are experts' definitions. Lay people, for example, tend to perceive a small risk to children as more significant than a larger risk to consenting adults who benefit from the risk-creating technology. However, if asked to rank hazards by the number of annual fatalities, without reference to ethical judgments, lay people provide quite reasonable estimates, demonstrating that they have substantial knowledge about many risks. Although some studies claim to demonstrate that lay people have inappropriate concerns about exotic hazards, these studies often use questionable methods, such as asking lay people to rank risks that are hard to compare. In contrast, a recent study showed that when lay people were given the necessary facts and time, they understood the specific risks of electromagnetic fields produced by high-voltage power transmission well enough to make informed decisions. Risk communication should therefore be based on the principle that people process new information in the context of their existing beliefs. If people know nothing about a topic, they will find messages about that topic incomprehensible. If they have erroneous beliefs, they are likely to misconstrue the messages. Thus, communicators need to know the nature and extent of recipients' knowledge and beliefs in order to design messages that will not be dismissed or misinterpreted. This need was demonstrated in a research project concerning the public's level of knowledge about risks posed by the presence of radon in the home. Researchers used open-ended interviews and questionnaires to determine what information should be included in their brochure on radon. Subjects who read the researchers' brochure performed significantly better in understanding radon risks than did a control group who read a brochure that was written using a different approach by a government agency. Thus, careful preparation can help risk communicators to produce balanced material that tells people what they need to know to make decisions about technological risks.

199712_1-RC_1_1

Which one of the following best expresses the main point of the passage?

To many developers of technologies that affect public health or the environment, "risk communication" means persuading the public that the potential risks of such technologies are small and should be ignored. Those who communicate risks in this way seem to believe that lay people do not understand the actual nature of technological risk, and they can cite studies asserting that, although people apparently ignore mundane hazards that pose significant danger, they get upset about exotic hazards that pose little chance of death or injury. Because some risk communicators take this persuasive stance, many lay people see "risk communication" as a euphemism for brainwashing done by experts. Since, however, the goal of risk communication should be to enable people to make informed decisions about technological risks, a clear understanding about how the public perceives risk is needed. Lay people's definitions of "risk" are more likely to reflect subjective ethical concerns than are experts' definitions. Lay people, for example, tend to perceive a small risk to children as more significant than a larger risk to consenting adults who benefit from the risk-creating technology. However, if asked to rank hazards by the number of annual fatalities, without reference to ethical judgments, lay people provide quite reasonable estimates, demonstrating that they have substantial knowledge about many risks. Although some studies claim to demonstrate that lay people have inappropriate concerns about exotic hazards, these studies often use questionable methods, such as asking lay people to rank risks that are hard to compare. In contrast, a recent study showed that when lay people were given the necessary facts and time, they understood the specific risks of electromagnetic fields produced by high-voltage power transmission well enough to make informed decisions. Risk communication should therefore be based on the principle that people process new information in the context of their existing beliefs. If people know nothing about a topic, they will find messages about that topic incomprehensible. If they have erroneous beliefs, they are likely to misconstrue the messages. Thus, communicators need to know the nature and extent of recipients' knowledge and beliefs in order to design messages that will not be dismissed or misinterpreted. This need was demonstrated in a research project concerning the public's level of knowledge about risks posed by the presence of radon in the home. Researchers used open-ended interviews and questionnaires to determine what information should be included in their brochure on radon. Subjects who read the researchers' brochure performed significantly better in understanding radon risks than did a control group who read a brochure that was written using a different approach by a government agency. Thus, careful preparation can help risk communicators to produce balanced material that tells people what they need to know to make decisions about technological risks.

199712_1-RC_1_2

The authors of the passage would be most likely to agree that the primary purpose of risk communication should be to

To many developers of technologies that affect public health or the environment, "risk communication" means persuading the public that the potential risks of such technologies are small and should be ignored. Those who communicate risks in this way seem to believe that lay people do not understand the actual nature of technological risk, and they can cite studies asserting that, although people apparently ignore mundane hazards that pose significant danger, they get upset about exotic hazards that pose little chance of death or injury. Because some risk communicators take this persuasive stance, many lay people see "risk communication" as a euphemism for brainwashing done by experts. Since, however, the goal of risk communication should be to enable people to make informed decisions about technological risks, a clear understanding about how the public perceives risk is needed. Lay people's definitions of "risk" are more likely to reflect subjective ethical concerns than are experts' definitions. Lay people, for example, tend to perceive a small risk to children as more significant than a larger risk to consenting adults who benefit from the risk-creating technology. However, if asked to rank hazards by the number of annual fatalities, without reference to ethical judgments, lay people provide quite reasonable estimates, demonstrating that they have substantial knowledge about many risks. Although some studies claim to demonstrate that lay people have inappropriate concerns about exotic hazards, these studies often use questionable methods, such as asking lay people to rank risks that are hard to compare. In contrast, a recent study showed that when lay people were given the necessary facts and time, they understood the specific risks of electromagnetic fields produced by high-voltage power transmission well enough to make informed decisions. Risk communication should therefore be based on the principle that people process new information in the context of their existing beliefs. If people know nothing about a topic, they will find messages about that topic incomprehensible. If they have erroneous beliefs, they are likely to misconstrue the messages. Thus, communicators need to know the nature and extent of recipients' knowledge and beliefs in order to design messages that will not be dismissed or misinterpreted. This need was demonstrated in a research project concerning the public's level of knowledge about risks posed by the presence of radon in the home. Researchers used open-ended interviews and questionnaires to determine what information should be included in their brochure on radon. Subjects who read the researchers' brochure performed significantly better in understanding radon risks than did a control group who read a brochure that was written using a different approach by a government agency. Thus, careful preparation can help risk communicators to produce balanced material that tells people what they need to know to make decisions about technological risks.

199712_1-RC_1_3

According to the passage, it is probable that which one of the following will occur when risk communicators attempt to communicate with lay people who have mistaken ideas about a particular technology?

To many developers of technologies that affect public health or the environment, "risk communication" means persuading the public that the potential risks of such technologies are small and should be ignored. Those who communicate risks in this way seem to believe that lay people do not understand the actual nature of technological risk, and they can cite studies asserting that, although people apparently ignore mundane hazards that pose significant danger, they get upset about exotic hazards that pose little chance of death or injury. Because some risk communicators take this persuasive stance, many lay people see "risk communication" as a euphemism for brainwashing done by experts. Since, however, the goal of risk communication should be to enable people to make informed decisions about technological risks, a clear understanding about how the public perceives risk is needed. Lay people's definitions of "risk" are more likely to reflect subjective ethical concerns than are experts' definitions. Lay people, for example, tend to perceive a small risk to children as more significant than a larger risk to consenting adults who benefit from the risk-creating technology. However, if asked to rank hazards by the number of annual fatalities, without reference to ethical judgments, lay people provide quite reasonable estimates, demonstrating that they have substantial knowledge about many risks. Although some studies claim to demonstrate that lay people have inappropriate concerns about exotic hazards, these studies often use questionable methods, such as asking lay people to rank risks that are hard to compare. In contrast, a recent study showed that when lay people were given the necessary facts and time, they understood the specific risks of electromagnetic fields produced by high-voltage power transmission well enough to make informed decisions. Risk communication should therefore be based on the principle that people process new information in the context of their existing beliefs. If people know nothing about a topic, they will find messages about that topic incomprehensible. If they have erroneous beliefs, they are likely to misconstrue the messages. Thus, communicators need to know the nature and extent of recipients' knowledge and beliefs in order to design messages that will not be dismissed or misinterpreted. This need was demonstrated in a research project concerning the public's level of knowledge about risks posed by the presence of radon in the home. Researchers used open-ended interviews and questionnaires to determine what information should be included in their brochure on radon. Subjects who read the researchers' brochure performed significantly better in understanding radon risks than did a control group who read a brochure that was written using a different approach by a government agency. Thus, careful preparation can help risk communicators to produce balanced material that tells people what they need to know to make decisions about technological risks.

199712_1-RC_1_4

Which one of the following is most clearly an example of the kind of risk perception discussed in the "studies" mentioned in line 8?

To many developers of technologies that affect public health or the environment, "risk communication" means persuading the public that the potential risks of such technologies are small and should be ignored. Those who communicate risks in this way seem to believe that lay people do not understand the actual nature of technological risk, and they can cite studies asserting that, although people apparently ignore mundane hazards that pose significant danger, they get upset about exotic hazards that pose little chance of death or injury. Because some risk communicators take this persuasive stance, many lay people see "risk communication" as a euphemism for brainwashing done by experts. Since, however, the goal of risk communication should be to enable people to make informed decisions about technological risks, a clear understanding about how the public perceives risk is needed. Lay people's definitions of "risk" are more likely to reflect subjective ethical concerns than are experts' definitions. Lay people, for example, tend to perceive a small risk to children as more significant than a larger risk to consenting adults who benefit from the risk-creating technology. However, if asked to rank hazards by the number of annual fatalities, without reference to ethical judgments, lay people provide quite reasonable estimates, demonstrating that they have substantial knowledge about many risks. Although some studies claim to demonstrate that lay people have inappropriate concerns about exotic hazards, these studies often use questionable methods, such as asking lay people to rank risks that are hard to compare. In contrast, a recent study showed that when lay people were given the necessary facts and time, they understood the specific risks of electromagnetic fields produced by high-voltage power transmission well enough to make informed decisions. Risk communication should therefore be based on the principle that people process new information in the context of their existing beliefs. If people know nothing about a topic, they will find messages about that topic incomprehensible. If they have erroneous beliefs, they are likely to misconstrue the messages. Thus, communicators need to know the nature and extent of recipients' knowledge and beliefs in order to design messages that will not be dismissed or misinterpreted. This need was demonstrated in a research project concerning the public's level of knowledge about risks posed by the presence of radon in the home. Researchers used open-ended interviews and questionnaires to determine what information should be included in their brochure on radon. Subjects who read the researchers' brochure performed significantly better in understanding radon risks than did a control group who read a brochure that was written using a different approach by a government agency. Thus, careful preparation can help risk communicators to produce balanced material that tells people what they need to know to make decisions about technological risks.

199712_1-RC_1_5

It can be inferred that the authors of the passage would be more likely than would the risk communicators discussed in the first paragraph to emphasis which one of the following?

To many developers of technologies that affect public health or the environment, "risk communication" means persuading the public that the potential risks of such technologies are small and should be ignored. Those who communicate risks in this way seem to believe that lay people do not understand the actual nature of technological risk, and they can cite studies asserting that, although people apparently ignore mundane hazards that pose significant danger, they get upset about exotic hazards that pose little chance of death or injury. Because some risk communicators take this persuasive stance, many lay people see "risk communication" as a euphemism for brainwashing done by experts. Since, however, the goal of risk communication should be to enable people to make informed decisions about technological risks, a clear understanding about how the public perceives risk is needed. Lay people's definitions of "risk" are more likely to reflect subjective ethical concerns than are experts' definitions. Lay people, for example, tend to perceive a small risk to children as more significant than a larger risk to consenting adults who benefit from the risk-creating technology. However, if asked to rank hazards by the number of annual fatalities, without reference to ethical judgments, lay people provide quite reasonable estimates, demonstrating that they have substantial knowledge about many risks. Although some studies claim to demonstrate that lay people have inappropriate concerns about exotic hazards, these studies often use questionable methods, such as asking lay people to rank risks that are hard to compare. In contrast, a recent study showed that when lay people were given the necessary facts and time, they understood the specific risks of electromagnetic fields produced by high-voltage power transmission well enough to make informed decisions. Risk communication should therefore be based on the principle that people process new information in the context of their existing beliefs. If people know nothing about a topic, they will find messages about that topic incomprehensible. If they have erroneous beliefs, they are likely to misconstrue the messages. Thus, communicators need to know the nature and extent of recipients' knowledge and beliefs in order to design messages that will not be dismissed or misinterpreted. This need was demonstrated in a research project concerning the public's level of knowledge about risks posed by the presence of radon in the home. Researchers used open-ended interviews and questionnaires to determine what information should be included in their brochure on radon. Subjects who read the researchers' brochure performed significantly better in understanding radon risks than did a control group who read a brochure that was written using a different approach by a government agency. Thus, careful preparation can help risk communicators to produce balanced material that tells people what they need to know to make decisions about technological risks.

199712_1-RC_1_6

According to the passage, many lay people believe which one of the following about risk communication?

In April 1990 representatives of the Pico Korea Union of electronics workers in Buchon City, South Korea, traveled to the United States in order to demand just settlement of their claims from the parent company of their employer, who upon the formation of the union had shut down operations without paying the workers. From the beginning, the union cause was championed by an unprecedented coalition of Korean American groups and deeply affected the Korean American community on several levels. First, it served as a rallying focus for a diverse community often divided by generation, class, and political ideologies. Most notably, the Pico cause mobilized many young second-generation Korean Americans, many of whom had never been part of a political campaign before, let alone one involving Korean issues. Members of this generation, unlike first-generation Korean Americans, generally fall within the more privileged sectors of the Korean American community and often feel alienated from their Korean roots. In addition to raising the political consciousness of young Korean Americans, the Pico struggle sparked among them new interest in their cultural identity. The Pico workers also suggested new roles that can be played by recent immigrants, particularly working-class immigrants. These immigrants' knowledge of working conditions overseas can help to globalize the perspective of their communities and can help to establish international ties on a more personal level, as witnessed in the especially warm exchange between the Pico workers and recent working-class immigrants from China. In addition to broadening the political base within the Korean American community, the Pico struggle also led to new alliances between the Korean American community and progressive labor and social justice groups within the larger society—as evidenced in the support received from the Coalition of Labor Union Women and leading African American unionists. The reasons for these effects lie in the nature of the cause. The issues raised by the Pico unionists had such a strong human component that differences within the community became secondary to larger concerns for social justice and workers' rights. The workers' demands for compensation and respect were unencumbered with strong ideological trappings. The economic exploitation faced by the Pico workers underscored the common interests of Korean workers, Korean Americans, the working class more inclusively, and a broad spectrum of community leaders. The Pico workers' campaign thus offers an important lesson. It demonstrates that ethnic communities need more than just a knowledge of history and culture as artifacts of the past in order to strengthen their ethnic identity. It shows that perhaps the most effective means of empowerment for many ethnic communities of immigrant derivation may be an identification with and participation in current struggles for economic and social justice in their countries of origin.

199712_1-RC_2_7

Which one of the following best describes the main topic of the passage?

In April 1990 representatives of the Pico Korea Union of electronics workers in Buchon City, South Korea, traveled to the United States in order to demand just settlement of their claims from the parent company of their employer, who upon the formation of the union had shut down operations without paying the workers. From the beginning, the union cause was championed by an unprecedented coalition of Korean American groups and deeply affected the Korean American community on several levels. First, it served as a rallying focus for a diverse community often divided by generation, class, and political ideologies. Most notably, the Pico cause mobilized many young second-generation Korean Americans, many of whom had never been part of a political campaign before, let alone one involving Korean issues. Members of this generation, unlike first-generation Korean Americans, generally fall within the more privileged sectors of the Korean American community and often feel alienated from their Korean roots. In addition to raising the political consciousness of young Korean Americans, the Pico struggle sparked among them new interest in their cultural identity. The Pico workers also suggested new roles that can be played by recent immigrants, particularly working-class immigrants. These immigrants' knowledge of working conditions overseas can help to globalize the perspective of their communities and can help to establish international ties on a more personal level, as witnessed in the especially warm exchange between the Pico workers and recent working-class immigrants from China. In addition to broadening the political base within the Korean American community, the Pico struggle also led to new alliances between the Korean American community and progressive labor and social justice groups within the larger society—as evidenced in the support received from the Coalition of Labor Union Women and leading African American unionists. The reasons for these effects lie in the nature of the cause. The issues raised by the Pico unionists had such a strong human component that differences within the community became secondary to larger concerns for social justice and workers' rights. The workers' demands for compensation and respect were unencumbered with strong ideological trappings. The economic exploitation faced by the Pico workers underscored the common interests of Korean workers, Korean Americans, the working class more inclusively, and a broad spectrum of community leaders. The Pico workers' campaign thus offers an important lesson. It demonstrates that ethnic communities need more than just a knowledge of history and culture as artifacts of the past in order to strengthen their ethnic identity. It shows that perhaps the most effective means of empowerment for many ethnic communities of immigrant derivation may be an identification with and participation in current struggles for economic and social justice in their countries of origin.

199712_1-RC_2_8

The passage suggests that which one of the following was a significant factor in the decision to shut down the Pico plant in Buchon City?

In April 1990 representatives of the Pico Korea Union of electronics workers in Buchon City, South Korea, traveled to the United States in order to demand just settlement of their claims from the parent company of their employer, who upon the formation of the union had shut down operations without paying the workers. From the beginning, the union cause was championed by an unprecedented coalition of Korean American groups and deeply affected the Korean American community on several levels. First, it served as a rallying focus for a diverse community often divided by generation, class, and political ideologies. Most notably, the Pico cause mobilized many young second-generation Korean Americans, many of whom had never been part of a political campaign before, let alone one involving Korean issues. Members of this generation, unlike first-generation Korean Americans, generally fall within the more privileged sectors of the Korean American community and often feel alienated from their Korean roots. In addition to raising the political consciousness of young Korean Americans, the Pico struggle sparked among them new interest in their cultural identity. The Pico workers also suggested new roles that can be played by recent immigrants, particularly working-class immigrants. These immigrants' knowledge of working conditions overseas can help to globalize the perspective of their communities and can help to establish international ties on a more personal level, as witnessed in the especially warm exchange between the Pico workers and recent working-class immigrants from China. In addition to broadening the political base within the Korean American community, the Pico struggle also led to new alliances between the Korean American community and progressive labor and social justice groups within the larger society—as evidenced in the support received from the Coalition of Labor Union Women and leading African American unionists. The reasons for these effects lie in the nature of the cause. The issues raised by the Pico unionists had such a strong human component that differences within the community became secondary to larger concerns for social justice and workers' rights. The workers' demands for compensation and respect were unencumbered with strong ideological trappings. The economic exploitation faced by the Pico workers underscored the common interests of Korean workers, Korean Americans, the working class more inclusively, and a broad spectrum of community leaders. The Pico workers' campaign thus offers an important lesson. It demonstrates that ethnic communities need more than just a knowledge of history and culture as artifacts of the past in order to strengthen their ethnic identity. It shows that perhaps the most effective means of empowerment for many ethnic communities of immigrant derivation may be an identification with and participation in current struggles for economic and social justice in their countries of origin.

199712_1-RC_2_9

Which one of the following is NOT mentioned in the passage as a recent development in the Korean American community?

In April 1990 representatives of the Pico Korea Union of electronics workers in Buchon City, South Korea, traveled to the United States in order to demand just settlement of their claims from the parent company of their employer, who upon the formation of the union had shut down operations without paying the workers. From the beginning, the union cause was championed by an unprecedented coalition of Korean American groups and deeply affected the Korean American community on several levels. First, it served as a rallying focus for a diverse community often divided by generation, class, and political ideologies. Most notably, the Pico cause mobilized many young second-generation Korean Americans, many of whom had never been part of a political campaign before, let alone one involving Korean issues. Members of this generation, unlike first-generation Korean Americans, generally fall within the more privileged sectors of the Korean American community and often feel alienated from their Korean roots. In addition to raising the political consciousness of young Korean Americans, the Pico struggle sparked among them new interest in their cultural identity. The Pico workers also suggested new roles that can be played by recent immigrants, particularly working-class immigrants. These immigrants' knowledge of working conditions overseas can help to globalize the perspective of their communities and can help to establish international ties on a more personal level, as witnessed in the especially warm exchange between the Pico workers and recent working-class immigrants from China. In addition to broadening the political base within the Korean American community, the Pico struggle also led to new alliances between the Korean American community and progressive labor and social justice groups within the larger society—as evidenced in the support received from the Coalition of Labor Union Women and leading African American unionists. The reasons for these effects lie in the nature of the cause. The issues raised by the Pico unionists had such a strong human component that differences within the community became secondary to larger concerns for social justice and workers' rights. The workers' demands for compensation and respect were unencumbered with strong ideological trappings. The economic exploitation faced by the Pico workers underscored the common interests of Korean workers, Korean Americans, the working class more inclusively, and a broad spectrum of community leaders. The Pico workers' campaign thus offers an important lesson. It demonstrates that ethnic communities need more than just a knowledge of history and culture as artifacts of the past in order to strengthen their ethnic identity. It shows that perhaps the most effective means of empowerment for many ethnic communities of immigrant derivation may be an identification with and participation in current struggles for economic and social justice in their countries of origin.

199712_1-RC_2_10

It can be inferred that the author of the passage would most likely agree with which one of the following statements about ethnic communities of immigrant derivation?

In April 1990 representatives of the Pico Korea Union of electronics workers in Buchon City, South Korea, traveled to the United States in order to demand just settlement of their claims from the parent company of their employer, who upon the formation of the union had shut down operations without paying the workers. From the beginning, the union cause was championed by an unprecedented coalition of Korean American groups and deeply affected the Korean American community on several levels. First, it served as a rallying focus for a diverse community often divided by generation, class, and political ideologies. Most notably, the Pico cause mobilized many young second-generation Korean Americans, many of whom had never been part of a political campaign before, let alone one involving Korean issues. Members of this generation, unlike first-generation Korean Americans, generally fall within the more privileged sectors of the Korean American community and often feel alienated from their Korean roots. In addition to raising the political consciousness of young Korean Americans, the Pico struggle sparked among them new interest in their cultural identity. The Pico workers also suggested new roles that can be played by recent immigrants, particularly working-class immigrants. These immigrants' knowledge of working conditions overseas can help to globalize the perspective of their communities and can help to establish international ties on a more personal level, as witnessed in the especially warm exchange between the Pico workers and recent working-class immigrants from China. In addition to broadening the political base within the Korean American community, the Pico struggle also led to new alliances between the Korean American community and progressive labor and social justice groups within the larger society—as evidenced in the support received from the Coalition of Labor Union Women and leading African American unionists. The reasons for these effects lie in the nature of the cause. The issues raised by the Pico unionists had such a strong human component that differences within the community became secondary to larger concerns for social justice and workers' rights. The workers' demands for compensation and respect were unencumbered with strong ideological trappings. The economic exploitation faced by the Pico workers underscored the common interests of Korean workers, Korean Americans, the working class more inclusively, and a broad spectrum of community leaders. The Pico workers' campaign thus offers an important lesson. It demonstrates that ethnic communities need more than just a knowledge of history and culture as artifacts of the past in order to strengthen their ethnic identity. It shows that perhaps the most effective means of empowerment for many ethnic communities of immigrant derivation may be an identification with and participation in current struggles for economic and social justice in their countries of origin.

199712_1-RC_2_11

In the second paragraph, the author refers to immigrants from China most probably in order to do which one of the following?

In April 1990 representatives of the Pico Korea Union of electronics workers in Buchon City, South Korea, traveled to the United States in order to demand just settlement of their claims from the parent company of their employer, who upon the formation of the union had shut down operations without paying the workers. From the beginning, the union cause was championed by an unprecedented coalition of Korean American groups and deeply affected the Korean American community on several levels. First, it served as a rallying focus for a diverse community often divided by generation, class, and political ideologies. Most notably, the Pico cause mobilized many young second-generation Korean Americans, many of whom had never been part of a political campaign before, let alone one involving Korean issues. Members of this generation, unlike first-generation Korean Americans, generally fall within the more privileged sectors of the Korean American community and often feel alienated from their Korean roots. In addition to raising the political consciousness of young Korean Americans, the Pico struggle sparked among them new interest in their cultural identity. The Pico workers also suggested new roles that can be played by recent immigrants, particularly working-class immigrants. These immigrants' knowledge of working conditions overseas can help to globalize the perspective of their communities and can help to establish international ties on a more personal level, as witnessed in the especially warm exchange between the Pico workers and recent working-class immigrants from China. In addition to broadening the political base within the Korean American community, the Pico struggle also led to new alliances between the Korean American community and progressive labor and social justice groups within the larger society—as evidenced in the support received from the Coalition of Labor Union Women and leading African American unionists. The reasons for these effects lie in the nature of the cause. The issues raised by the Pico unionists had such a strong human component that differences within the community became secondary to larger concerns for social justice and workers' rights. The workers' demands for compensation and respect were unencumbered with strong ideological trappings. The economic exploitation faced by the Pico workers underscored the common interests of Korean workers, Korean Americans, the working class more inclusively, and a broad spectrum of community leaders. The Pico workers' campaign thus offers an important lesson. It demonstrates that ethnic communities need more than just a knowledge of history and culture as artifacts of the past in order to strengthen their ethnic identity. It shows that perhaps the most effective means of empowerment for many ethnic communities of immigrant derivation may be an identification with and participation in current struggles for economic and social justice in their countries of origin.

199712_1-RC_2_12

The primary purpose of the passage is to

In April 1990 representatives of the Pico Korea Union of electronics workers in Buchon City, South Korea, traveled to the United States in order to demand just settlement of their claims from the parent company of their employer, who upon the formation of the union had shut down operations without paying the workers. From the beginning, the union cause was championed by an unprecedented coalition of Korean American groups and deeply affected the Korean American community on several levels. First, it served as a rallying focus for a diverse community often divided by generation, class, and political ideologies. Most notably, the Pico cause mobilized many young second-generation Korean Americans, many of whom had never been part of a political campaign before, let alone one involving Korean issues. Members of this generation, unlike first-generation Korean Americans, generally fall within the more privileged sectors of the Korean American community and often feel alienated from their Korean roots. In addition to raising the political consciousness of young Korean Americans, the Pico struggle sparked among them new interest in their cultural identity. The Pico workers also suggested new roles that can be played by recent immigrants, particularly working-class immigrants. These immigrants' knowledge of working conditions overseas can help to globalize the perspective of their communities and can help to establish international ties on a more personal level, as witnessed in the especially warm exchange between the Pico workers and recent working-class immigrants from China. In addition to broadening the political base within the Korean American community, the Pico struggle also led to new alliances between the Korean American community and progressive labor and social justice groups within the larger society—as evidenced in the support received from the Coalition of Labor Union Women and leading African American unionists. The reasons for these effects lie in the nature of the cause. The issues raised by the Pico unionists had such a strong human component that differences within the community became secondary to larger concerns for social justice and workers' rights. The workers' demands for compensation and respect were unencumbered with strong ideological trappings. The economic exploitation faced by the Pico workers underscored the common interests of Korean workers, Korean Americans, the working class more inclusively, and a broad spectrum of community leaders. The Pico workers' campaign thus offers an important lesson. It demonstrates that ethnic communities need more than just a knowledge of history and culture as artifacts of the past in order to strengthen their ethnic identity. It shows that perhaps the most effective means of empowerment for many ethnic communities of immigrant derivation may be an identification with and participation in current struggles for economic and social justice in their countries of origin.

199712_1-RC_2_13

Which one of the following most accurately states the function of the third paragraph?

In recent years, scholars have begun to use social science tools to analyze court opinions. These scholars have justifiably criticized traditional legal research for its focus on a few cases that may not be representative and its fascination with arcane matters that do not affect real people with real legal problems. Zirkel and Schoenfeld, for example, have championed the application of social science tools to the analysis of case law surrounding discrimination against women in higher education employment. Their studies have demonstrated how these social science tools may be used to serve the interests of scholars, lawyers, and prospective plaintiffs as well. However, their enthusiasm for the "outcomes analysis" technique seems misguided. Of fundamental concern is the outcomes analysts' assumption that simply counting the number of successful and unsuccessful plaintiffs will be useful to prospective plaintiffs. Although the odds are clearly against the plaintiff in sex discrimination cases, plaintiffs who believe that their cause is just and that they will prevail are not swayed by such evidence. In addition, because lawsuits are so different in the details of the case, in the quality of the evidence the plaintiff presents, and in the attitude of the judge toward academic plaintiffs, giving prospective plaintiffs statistics about overall outcomes without analyzing the reason for these outcomes is of marginal assistance. Outcomes analysis, for example, ignores the fact that in certain academic sex discrimination cases—those involving serious procedural violations or incriminating evidencn the form of written admissions of discriminatory practices—plaintiffs are much more likely to prevail. Two different approaches offer more useful applications of social science tools in analyzing sex discrimination cases. One is a process called "policy capturing," in which the researcher reads each opinion; identifies variables discussed in the opinion, such as the regularity of employer evaluations of the plaintiff's performance, training of evaluators, and the kind of evaluation instrument used; and then uses multivariate analysis to determine whether these variables predict the outcome of the lawsuit. The advantage of policy-capturing research is that it attempts to explain the reason for the outcome, rather than simply reporting the outcome, and identifies factors that contribute to a plaintiff's success or failure. Taking a slightly different approach, other scholars have adopted a technique that requires reading complete transcripts of all sex discrimination cases litigated during a certain time period to identify variables such as the nature of the allegedly illegal conduct, the consequences for employers, and the nature of the remedy, as well as the factors that contributed to the verdict and the kind of evidence necessary for the plaintiff to prevail. While the findings of these studies are limited to the period covered, they assist potential plaintiffs and defendants in assessing their cases.

199712_1-RC_3_14

Which one of the following best expresses the main idea of the passage?

In recent years, scholars have begun to use social science tools to analyze court opinions. These scholars have justifiably criticized traditional legal research for its focus on a few cases that may not be representative and its fascination with arcane matters that do not affect real people with real legal problems. Zirkel and Schoenfeld, for example, have championed the application of social science tools to the analysis of case law surrounding discrimination against women in higher education employment. Their studies have demonstrated how these social science tools may be used to serve the interests of scholars, lawyers, and prospective plaintiffs as well. However, their enthusiasm for the "outcomes analysis" technique seems misguided. Of fundamental concern is the outcomes analysts' assumption that simply counting the number of successful and unsuccessful plaintiffs will be useful to prospective plaintiffs. Although the odds are clearly against the plaintiff in sex discrimination cases, plaintiffs who believe that their cause is just and that they will prevail are not swayed by such evidence. In addition, because lawsuits are so different in the details of the case, in the quality of the evidence the plaintiff presents, and in the attitude of the judge toward academic plaintiffs, giving prospective plaintiffs statistics about overall outcomes without analyzing the reason for these outcomes is of marginal assistance. Outcomes analysis, for example, ignores the fact that in certain academic sex discrimination cases—those involving serious procedural violations or incriminating evidencn the form of written admissions of discriminatory practices—plaintiffs are much more likely to prevail. Two different approaches offer more useful applications of social science tools in analyzing sex discrimination cases. One is a process called "policy capturing," in which the researcher reads each opinion; identifies variables discussed in the opinion, such as the regularity of employer evaluations of the plaintiff's performance, training of evaluators, and the kind of evaluation instrument used; and then uses multivariate analysis to determine whether these variables predict the outcome of the lawsuit. The advantage of policy-capturing research is that it attempts to explain the reason for the outcome, rather than simply reporting the outcome, and identifies factors that contribute to a plaintiff's success or failure. Taking a slightly different approach, other scholars have adopted a technique that requires reading complete transcripts of all sex discrimination cases litigated during a certain time period to identify variables such as the nature of the allegedly illegal conduct, the consequences for employers, and the nature of the remedy, as well as the factors that contributed to the verdict and the kind of evidence necessary for the plaintiff to prevail. While the findings of these studies are limited to the period covered, they assist potential plaintiffs and defendants in assessing their cases.

199712_1-RC_3_15

It can be inferred from the author's discussion of traditional legal research that the author is

In recent years, scholars have begun to use social science tools to analyze court opinions. These scholars have justifiably criticized traditional legal research for its focus on a few cases that may not be representative and its fascination with arcane matters that do not affect real people with real legal problems. Zirkel and Schoenfeld, for example, have championed the application of social science tools to the analysis of case law surrounding discrimination against women in higher education employment. Their studies have demonstrated how these social science tools may be used to serve the interests of scholars, lawyers, and prospective plaintiffs as well. However, their enthusiasm for the "outcomes analysis" technique seems misguided. Of fundamental concern is the outcomes analysts' assumption that simply counting the number of successful and unsuccessful plaintiffs will be useful to prospective plaintiffs. Although the odds are clearly against the plaintiff in sex discrimination cases, plaintiffs who believe that their cause is just and that they will prevail are not swayed by such evidence. In addition, because lawsuits are so different in the details of the case, in the quality of the evidence the plaintiff presents, and in the attitude of the judge toward academic plaintiffs, giving prospective plaintiffs statistics about overall outcomes without analyzing the reason for these outcomes is of marginal assistance. Outcomes analysis, for example, ignores the fact that in certain academic sex discrimination cases—those involving serious procedural violations or incriminating evidencn the form of written admissions of discriminatory practices—plaintiffs are much more likely to prevail. Two different approaches offer more useful applications of social science tools in analyzing sex discrimination cases. One is a process called "policy capturing," in which the researcher reads each opinion; identifies variables discussed in the opinion, such as the regularity of employer evaluations of the plaintiff's performance, training of evaluators, and the kind of evaluation instrument used; and then uses multivariate analysis to determine whether these variables predict the outcome of the lawsuit. The advantage of policy-capturing research is that it attempts to explain the reason for the outcome, rather than simply reporting the outcome, and identifies factors that contribute to a plaintiff's success or failure. Taking a slightly different approach, other scholars have adopted a technique that requires reading complete transcripts of all sex discrimination cases litigated during a certain time period to identify variables such as the nature of the allegedly illegal conduct, the consequences for employers, and the nature of the remedy, as well as the factors that contributed to the verdict and the kind of evidence necessary for the plaintiff to prevail. While the findings of these studies are limited to the period covered, they assist potential plaintiffs and defendants in assessing their cases.

199712_1-RC_3_16

Which one of the following statements about Zirkel and Schoenfeld can be inferred from the passage?

In recent years, scholars have begun to use social science tools to analyze court opinions. These scholars have justifiably criticized traditional legal research for its focus on a few cases that may not be representative and its fascination with arcane matters that do not affect real people with real legal problems. Zirkel and Schoenfeld, for example, have championed the application of social science tools to the analysis of case law surrounding discrimination against women in higher education employment. Their studies have demonstrated how these social science tools may be used to serve the interests of scholars, lawyers, and prospective plaintiffs as well. However, their enthusiasm for the "outcomes analysis" technique seems misguided. Of fundamental concern is the outcomes analysts' assumption that simply counting the number of successful and unsuccessful plaintiffs will be useful to prospective plaintiffs. Although the odds are clearly against the plaintiff in sex discrimination cases, plaintiffs who believe that their cause is just and that they will prevail are not swayed by such evidence. In addition, because lawsuits are so different in the details of the case, in the quality of the evidence the plaintiff presents, and in the attitude of the judge toward academic plaintiffs, giving prospective plaintiffs statistics about overall outcomes without analyzing the reason for these outcomes is of marginal assistance. Outcomes analysis, for example, ignores the fact that in certain academic sex discrimination cases—those involving serious procedural violations or incriminating evidencn the form of written admissions of discriminatory practices—plaintiffs are much more likely to prevail. Two different approaches offer more useful applications of social science tools in analyzing sex discrimination cases. One is a process called "policy capturing," in which the researcher reads each opinion; identifies variables discussed in the opinion, such as the regularity of employer evaluations of the plaintiff's performance, training of evaluators, and the kind of evaluation instrument used; and then uses multivariate analysis to determine whether these variables predict the outcome of the lawsuit. The advantage of policy-capturing research is that it attempts to explain the reason for the outcome, rather than simply reporting the outcome, and identifies factors that contribute to a plaintiff's success or failure. Taking a slightly different approach, other scholars have adopted a technique that requires reading complete transcripts of all sex discrimination cases litigated during a certain time period to identify variables such as the nature of the allegedly illegal conduct, the consequences for employers, and the nature of the remedy, as well as the factors that contributed to the verdict and the kind of evidence necessary for the plaintiff to prevail. While the findings of these studies are limited to the period covered, they assist potential plaintiffs and defendants in assessing their cases.

199712_1-RC_3_17

The author's characterization of traditional legal research in the first paragraph is intended to

In recent years, scholars have begun to use social science tools to analyze court opinions. These scholars have justifiably criticized traditional legal research for its focus on a few cases that may not be representative and its fascination with arcane matters that do not affect real people with real legal problems. Zirkel and Schoenfeld, for example, have championed the application of social science tools to the analysis of case law surrounding discrimination against women in higher education employment. Their studies have demonstrated how these social science tools may be used to serve the interests of scholars, lawyers, and prospective plaintiffs as well. However, their enthusiasm for the "outcomes analysis" technique seems misguided. Of fundamental concern is the outcomes analysts' assumption that simply counting the number of successful and unsuccessful plaintiffs will be useful to prospective plaintiffs. Although the odds are clearly against the plaintiff in sex discrimination cases, plaintiffs who believe that their cause is just and that they will prevail are not swayed by such evidence. In addition, because lawsuits are so different in the details of the case, in the quality of the evidence the plaintiff presents, and in the attitude of the judge toward academic plaintiffs, giving prospective plaintiffs statistics about overall outcomes without analyzing the reason for these outcomes is of marginal assistance. Outcomes analysis, for example, ignores the fact that in certain academic sex discrimination cases—those involving serious procedural violations or incriminating evidencn the form of written admissions of discriminatory practices—plaintiffs are much more likely to prevail. Two different approaches offer more useful applications of social science tools in analyzing sex discrimination cases. One is a process called "policy capturing," in which the researcher reads each opinion; identifies variables discussed in the opinion, such as the regularity of employer evaluations of the plaintiff's performance, training of evaluators, and the kind of evaluation instrument used; and then uses multivariate analysis to determine whether these variables predict the outcome of the lawsuit. The advantage of policy-capturing research is that it attempts to explain the reason for the outcome, rather than simply reporting the outcome, and identifies factors that contribute to a plaintiff's success or failure. Taking a slightly different approach, other scholars have adopted a technique that requires reading complete transcripts of all sex discrimination cases litigated during a certain time period to identify variables such as the nature of the allegedly illegal conduct, the consequences for employers, and the nature of the remedy, as well as the factors that contributed to the verdict and the kind of evidence necessary for the plaintiff to prevail. While the findings of these studies are limited to the period covered, they assist potential plaintiffs and defendants in assessing their cases.

199712_1-RC_3_18

The information in the passage suggests that plaintiffs who pursue sex discrimination cases despite the statistics provided by outcomes analysis can best be likened to

In recent years, scholars have begun to use social science tools to analyze court opinions. These scholars have justifiably criticized traditional legal research for its focus on a few cases that may not be representative and its fascination with arcane matters that do not affect real people with real legal problems. Zirkel and Schoenfeld, for example, have championed the application of social science tools to the analysis of case law surrounding discrimination against women in higher education employment. Their studies have demonstrated how these social science tools may be used to serve the interests of scholars, lawyers, and prospective plaintiffs as well. However, their enthusiasm for the "outcomes analysis" technique seems misguided. Of fundamental concern is the outcomes analysts' assumption that simply counting the number of successful and unsuccessful plaintiffs will be useful to prospective plaintiffs. Although the odds are clearly against the plaintiff in sex discrimination cases, plaintiffs who believe that their cause is just and that they will prevail are not swayed by such evidence. In addition, because lawsuits are so different in the details of the case, in the quality of the evidence the plaintiff presents, and in the attitude of the judge toward academic plaintiffs, giving prospective plaintiffs statistics about overall outcomes without analyzing the reason for these outcomes is of marginal assistance. Outcomes analysis, for example, ignores the fact that in certain academic sex discrimination cases—those involving serious procedural violations or incriminating evidencn the form of written admissions of discriminatory practices—plaintiffs are much more likely to prevail. Two different approaches offer more useful applications of social science tools in analyzing sex discrimination cases. One is a process called "policy capturing," in which the researcher reads each opinion; identifies variables discussed in the opinion, such as the regularity of employer evaluations of the plaintiff's performance, training of evaluators, and the kind of evaluation instrument used; and then uses multivariate analysis to determine whether these variables predict the outcome of the lawsuit. The advantage of policy-capturing research is that it attempts to explain the reason for the outcome, rather than simply reporting the outcome, and identifies factors that contribute to a plaintiff's success or failure. Taking a slightly different approach, other scholars have adopted a technique that requires reading complete transcripts of all sex discrimination cases litigated during a certain time period to identify variables such as the nature of the allegedly illegal conduct, the consequences for employers, and the nature of the remedy, as well as the factors that contributed to the verdict and the kind of evidence necessary for the plaintiff to prevail. While the findings of these studies are limited to the period covered, they assist potential plaintiffs and defendants in assessing their cases.

199712_1-RC_3_19

The policy-capturing approach differs from the approach described in lines 48–59 in that the latter approach

In recent years, scholars have begun to use social science tools to analyze court opinions. These scholars have justifiably criticized traditional legal research for its focus on a few cases that may not be representative and its fascination with arcane matters that do not affect real people with real legal problems. Zirkel and Schoenfeld, for example, have championed the application of social science tools to the analysis of case law surrounding discrimination against women in higher education employment. Their studies have demonstrated how these social science tools may be used to serve the interests of scholars, lawyers, and prospective plaintiffs as well. However, their enthusiasm for the "outcomes analysis" technique seems misguided. Of fundamental concern is the outcomes analysts' assumption that simply counting the number of successful and unsuccessful plaintiffs will be useful to prospective plaintiffs. Although the odds are clearly against the plaintiff in sex discrimination cases, plaintiffs who believe that their cause is just and that they will prevail are not swayed by such evidence. In addition, because lawsuits are so different in the details of the case, in the quality of the evidence the plaintiff presents, and in the attitude of the judge toward academic plaintiffs, giving prospective plaintiffs statistics about overall outcomes without analyzing the reason for these outcomes is of marginal assistance. Outcomes analysis, for example, ignores the fact that in certain academic sex discrimination cases—those involving serious procedural violations or incriminating evidencn the form of written admissions of discriminatory practices—plaintiffs are much more likely to prevail. Two different approaches offer more useful applications of social science tools in analyzing sex discrimination cases. One is a process called "policy capturing," in which the researcher reads each opinion; identifies variables discussed in the opinion, such as the regularity of employer evaluations of the plaintiff's performance, training of evaluators, and the kind of evaluation instrument used; and then uses multivariate analysis to determine whether these variables predict the outcome of the lawsuit. The advantage of policy-capturing research is that it attempts to explain the reason for the outcome, rather than simply reporting the outcome, and identifies factors that contribute to a plaintiff's success or failure. Taking a slightly different approach, other scholars have adopted a technique that requires reading complete transcripts of all sex discrimination cases litigated during a certain time period to identify variables such as the nature of the allegedly illegal conduct, the consequences for employers, and the nature of the remedy, as well as the factors that contributed to the verdict and the kind of evidence necessary for the plaintiff to prevail. While the findings of these studies are limited to the period covered, they assist potential plaintiffs and defendants in assessing their cases.

199712_1-RC_3_20

Which one of the following best describes the organization of the passage?

A fake can be defined as an artwork intended to deceive. The motives of its creator are decisive, and the merit of the object itself is a separate issue. The question mark in the title of Mark Jones's Fake? The Art of Deception reveals the study's broader concerns. Indeed, it might equally be entitled Original?, and the text begins by noting a variety of possibilities somewhere between the two extremes. These include works by an artist's followers in the style of the master, deliberate archaism, copying for pedagogical purposes, and the production of commercial facsimiles. The greater part of Fake? is devoted to a chronological survey suggesting that faking feeds on the many different motives people have for collecting art, and that, on the whole, the faking of art flourishes whenever art collecting flourishes. In imperial Rome there was a widespread interest in collecting earlier Greek art, and therefore, in faking it. No doubt many of the sculptures now exhibited as "Roman copies" were originally passed off as Greek. In medieval Europe, because art was celebrated more for its devotional uses than for its provenance or the ingenuity of its creators, the faking of art was virtually nonexistent. The modern age of faking again in the Italian Renaissance, with two linked developments: a passionate identification with the world of antiquity and a growing sense of individual artistic identity. A patron of the young Michelangelo prevailed upon the artist to make his sculpture Sleeping Cupid look as though it had been buried in the earth so that "it will be taken for antique, and you will sell it much better." Within a few years, however, beginning with his first masterpiece, the Bacchus, Michelangelo had shown his contemporaries that great art can assimilate and transcend what came before, resulting in a wholly original work. Soon his genius made him the object of imitators. Fake? also reminds us that in certain cultures authenticity is a foreign concept. This is true of much African art, where the authenticity of an object is considered by collectors to depend on its function. As an illustration, the study compares two versions of a chi wara mask made by the Bambara people of Mali. One has pegs allowing it to be attached to a cap for its intended ceremonial purpose. The second, otherwise identical, lacks the pegs and is a replica made for sale. African carving is notoriously difficult to date, but even if the ritual mask is recent, made perhaps to replace a damaged predecessor, and the replica much older, only the ritual mask should be seen as authentic, for it is tied to the form's original function. That, at least, is the consensus of the so-called experts. One wonders whether the Bambaran artists would agree.

199712_1-RC_4_21

The passage can best be described as doing which one of the following?

A fake can be defined as an artwork intended to deceive. The motives of its creator are decisive, and the merit of the object itself is a separate issue. The question mark in the title of Mark Jones's Fake? The Art of Deception reveals the study's broader concerns. Indeed, it might equally be entitled Original?, and the text begins by noting a variety of possibilities somewhere between the two extremes. These include works by an artist's followers in the style of the master, deliberate archaism, copying for pedagogical purposes, and the production of commercial facsimiles. The greater part of Fake? is devoted to a chronological survey suggesting that faking feeds on the many different motives people have for collecting art, and that, on the whole, the faking of art flourishes whenever art collecting flourishes. In imperial Rome there was a widespread interest in collecting earlier Greek art, and therefore, in faking it. No doubt many of the sculptures now exhibited as "Roman copies" were originally passed off as Greek. In medieval Europe, because art was celebrated more for its devotional uses than for its provenance or the ingenuity of its creators, the faking of art was virtually nonexistent. The modern age of faking again in the Italian Renaissance, with two linked developments: a passionate identification with the world of antiquity and a growing sense of individual artistic identity. A patron of the young Michelangelo prevailed upon the artist to make his sculpture Sleeping Cupid look as though it had been buried in the earth so that "it will be taken for antique, and you will sell it much better." Within a few years, however, beginning with his first masterpiece, the Bacchus, Michelangelo had shown his contemporaries that great art can assimilate and transcend what came before, resulting in a wholly original work. Soon his genius made him the object of imitators. Fake? also reminds us that in certain cultures authenticity is a foreign concept. This is true of much African art, where the authenticity of an object is considered by collectors to depend on its function. As an illustration, the study compares two versions of a chi wara mask made by the Bambara people of Mali. One has pegs allowing it to be attached to a cap for its intended ceremonial purpose. The second, otherwise identical, lacks the pegs and is a replica made for sale. African carving is notoriously difficult to date, but even if the ritual mask is recent, made perhaps to replace a damaged predecessor, and the replica much older, only the ritual mask should be seen as authentic, for it is tied to the form's original function. That, at least, is the consensus of the so-called experts. One wonders whether the Bambaran artists would agree.

199712_1-RC_4_22

Which one of the following best expresses the author's main point?

A fake can be defined as an artwork intended to deceive. The motives of its creator are decisive, and the merit of the object itself is a separate issue. The question mark in the title of Mark Jones's Fake? The Art of Deception reveals the study's broader concerns. Indeed, it might equally be entitled Original?, and the text begins by noting a variety of possibilities somewhere between the two extremes. These include works by an artist's followers in the style of the master, deliberate archaism, copying for pedagogical purposes, and the production of commercial facsimiles. The greater part of Fake? is devoted to a chronological survey suggesting that faking feeds on the many different motives people have for collecting art, and that, on the whole, the faking of art flourishes whenever art collecting flourishes. In imperial Rome there was a widespread interest in collecting earlier Greek art, and therefore, in faking it. No doubt many of the sculptures now exhibited as "Roman copies" were originally passed off as Greek. In medieval Europe, because art was celebrated more for its devotional uses than for its provenance or the ingenuity of its creators, the faking of art was virtually nonexistent. The modern age of faking again in the Italian Renaissance, with two linked developments: a passionate identification with the world of antiquity and a growing sense of individual artistic identity. A patron of the young Michelangelo prevailed upon the artist to make his sculpture Sleeping Cupid look as though it had been buried in the earth so that "it will be taken for antique, and you will sell it much better." Within a few years, however, beginning with his first masterpiece, the Bacchus, Michelangelo had shown his contemporaries that great art can assimilate and transcend what came before, resulting in a wholly original work. Soon his genius made him the object of imitators. Fake? also reminds us that in certain cultures authenticity is a foreign concept. This is true of much African art, where the authenticity of an object is considered by collectors to depend on its function. As an illustration, the study compares two versions of a chi wara mask made by the Bambara people of Mali. One has pegs allowing it to be attached to a cap for its intended ceremonial purpose. The second, otherwise identical, lacks the pegs and is a replica made for sale. African carving is notoriously difficult to date, but even if the ritual mask is recent, made perhaps to replace a damaged predecessor, and the replica much older, only the ritual mask should be seen as authentic, for it is tied to the form's original function. That, at least, is the consensus of the so-called experts. One wonders whether the Bambaran artists would agree.

199712_1-RC_4_23

According to the passage, an artwork can be definitively classified as a fake if the person who created it

A fake can be defined as an artwork intended to deceive. The motives of its creator are decisive, and the merit of the object itself is a separate issue. The question mark in the title of Mark Jones's Fake? The Art of Deception reveals the study's broader concerns. Indeed, it might equally be entitled Original?, and the text begins by noting a variety of possibilities somewhere between the two extremes. These include works by an artist's followers in the style of the master, deliberate archaism, copying for pedagogical purposes, and the production of commercial facsimiles. The greater part of Fake? is devoted to a chronological survey suggesting that faking feeds on the many different motives people have for collecting art, and that, on the whole, the faking of art flourishes whenever art collecting flourishes. In imperial Rome there was a widespread interest in collecting earlier Greek art, and therefore, in faking it. No doubt many of the sculptures now exhibited as "Roman copies" were originally passed off as Greek. In medieval Europe, because art was celebrated more for its devotional uses than for its provenance or the ingenuity of its creators, the faking of art was virtually nonexistent. The modern age of faking again in the Italian Renaissance, with two linked developments: a passionate identification with the world of antiquity and a growing sense of individual artistic identity. A patron of the young Michelangelo prevailed upon the artist to make his sculpture Sleeping Cupid look as though it had been buried in the earth so that "it will be taken for antique, and you will sell it much better." Within a few years, however, beginning with his first masterpiece, the Bacchus, Michelangelo had shown his contemporaries that great art can assimilate and transcend what came before, resulting in a wholly original work. Soon his genius made him the object of imitators. Fake? also reminds us that in certain cultures authenticity is a foreign concept. This is true of much African art, where the authenticity of an object is considered by collectors to depend on its function. As an illustration, the study compares two versions of a chi wara mask made by the Bambara people of Mali. One has pegs allowing it to be attached to a cap for its intended ceremonial purpose. The second, otherwise identical, lacks the pegs and is a replica made for sale. African carving is notoriously difficult to date, but even if the ritual mask is recent, made perhaps to replace a damaged predecessor, and the replica much older, only the ritual mask should be seen as authentic, for it is tied to the form's original function. That, at least, is the consensus of the so-called experts. One wonders whether the Bambaran artists would agree.

199712_1-RC_4_24

The author provides a least one example of each of the following EXCEPT: